


A Friend In Need

by JaneSkazki, Teegar



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Action/Adventure, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Minor Character Death, Novel, Pre-Slash, Slave Trade, Violence, nowhere as grim as these tags would imply
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2019-11-13 23:00:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 152,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18040733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneSkazki/pseuds/JaneSkazki, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teegar/pseuds/Teegar
Summary: Due to cultural misunderstandings (and political machinations on the part of their hosts) Chekov ends up as Sulu's servant as the two of them try to navigate the treacherously byzantine workings of Kibrian society during their stay on that planet.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first collaboration with my long-time writing partner, Jane Skazki. In fact, we had only exchanged a few letters before I impetuously suggested, "hey, let's write something together!" I was, at that time, very enamored of generating all sorts of writerly organizational material before I started my stories -- plot outlines, character sheets, and the like. I wrote "Lucky Pavel" and "Princess Snowflake" relying heavily on these sort of aids. You can probably tell from the the more formal organization of each of those. Jane tended to cast a jaundiced Brit eye on these New World gimcrack gee-gaws that did nothing in her estimation but try to improve on a process that was already perfectly good. Therefore, I didn't push the matter and we wrote "Friend" with no masterplan. Events just developed from chapter to chapter. Things got a little hairy when we were eventually decided we needed to slow our speeding plot train to a stop, but eventually all threads unraveled in a satisfactory manner. 
> 
> This process was in stark contrast to another project that we were working on at the same time. These were pre-email days -- if you can imagine such a thing. Jane and I were dealing with not just the time lag for the other person to write their section and mail it; we had international mail delivery times to wait through. So a month and a half might pass between times it was your turn to write again. I decided we should start another story to fill up this "down" time that might just be wasted on real life pursuits, so I came up with a Star Trek-ified version of Robert Lewis Stevenson's "Kidnapped" in which Chekov and Scotty are shanghaied by space pirates... And it was dreadful. I have no idea why -- maybe just spreading our efforts too thinly -- but in all the ways "Friend" was delightful and gripping, "Kidnapped" was just dark and convoluted. I eventually abandoned ship on the story. Jane came up with an ending for it... I think I read it... Hmmm... maybe I'll revisit it one day... Not sure there's much there to salvage...
> 
> "Friend in Need," however, was one of the most enjoyable writing experiences I ever had. As you can probably tell as a reader, we had great fun coming up with the slang for the lower orders of Kibrians. The constant contrast between the world of the kitchens and the world of the elites kept the story fresh, dynamic, and exciting. Or, to put it in more practical terms, if Jane wrote a plot development in the kitchens that I wasn't sure how to advance, I could always say, "How would the elites react to this?" or "How would the rest of the Federation team react to this?" get a good idea for a scene from that, and kick the "plot ball" back to my partner's court.
> 
> Whatever we did must have worked pretty well, because "Friend in Need" won ASC's second place award for best Gen story of the year in 1997. Hope you like it as much!

# 

A Friend in Need

by Teegar Taylor and Jane Skazki

"This is very strange," Ensign Pavel Chekov said wonderingly as he moved through the midday crowd in the marketplace he now knew was called a kideok. "Yesterday this was all babble."

His companion, Lieutenant Sulu laughed. He had persuaded the ensign to join him in experimenting with an intensive language learning program involving drugs that were reputed to increase retention and high-speed computer tutorials. Chekov had been sceptical at first, but their assignment on Kibria was going to last another five days at least and the prospect of not having to keep up with a universal translator for that length of time was just too tempting. "How much are you catching?"

"Infinitely more than yesterday." Chekov shielded his eyes from the bright rays of Kideo, the Kibrian sun and watched a low caste jibravt (seller of meats) argue prices with a mid-caste loravt (cook) who from the design on his livery was obviously attached to the household of Mahtab, a kiani (highest caste) engineer. "But in two weeks I won't understand a word of the Kibree language again?"

"Depending on how much you use the language, you may retain a few words and phrases, but, yeah, in less than three hundred hours you'll turn back into a pumpkin, linguistically speaking… and remember because Kibrian days last forty hours, you really only have seven and a half days of linguistic competence, not two weeks."

The Kibree, if nothing else, were a colourful people. The thick, dark skin that protected them from the burning rays of their sun came in shades of burnt orange, brownish-green and bluish-black. They were a humanoid race, almost uniformly thin, with high cheekbones and small slanting eyes. Chekov felt rather pale and drab in their midst.

"That should be more than enough." He squinted at the sign being carried by a native down the street from them. Because he'd only had one learning session, Chekov wasn't completely literate yet. "What does that say?"

Sulu quickly grabbed his friend's extended finger.

"Don't point," he warned. Sulu had started his learning sessions as soon as he found out about his assignment to Kibria. He not only had an extensive knowledge of the language, but was completely literate and had a rudimentary understanding of the complex laws and social codes of the Kibree. "As offworlders, we have no caste. Pointing is the gesture of a superior caste member towards an inferior. You could cause a misunderstanding."

"Oh, sorry," Chekov said, partly to Sulu, and partly to the unknown Kibree he'd slighted. "They have too many rules."

Sulu breathed a quick sigh of relief as the vendor passed them without taking note. "You better believe it. And we've got to be careful not to break any of them. But learning the language is the first step in gaining an understanding and deep appreciation of a culture."

"I'm not sure if I want to appreciate this culture." Chekov frowned at the sight of a young kiani lecturing an old slave in front of a shop.

The main reason Kibria, despite its technical advances, was having difficulty becoming a full member of the Federation was their stubborn adherence to a strict caste system that included slavery as its lowest rung. Young Kibree underwent an extensive battery of tests when they were little more than toddlers. The results determined their assignment to a caste on the basis of their intellect, aptitudes and social skills. The Federation might have been able to swallow this if the social ranking system didn't judge a percentage of the population virtually worthless and assign them as the personal property of those evaluated as being more deserving. In addition, the Kibrian legal system decreed that individuals could permanently or temporarily fall into slavery as punishment for certain infractions of the law.

"It's really not that different from twentieth century Russian communism," Sulu pointed out.

Chekov shook his head firmly. "The object of the Russian Revolution was to free the serfs and ensure equal opportunity through shared social responsibility, not to perpetuate a permanent underclass with no legal rights."

Sulu grinned. "Can you say that in Kibrian?"

Chekov paused. It had been quite a mouthful in Standard. "If we don't find a place to eat soon, " he said instead, choosing to demonstrate his new-found mastery of the alien tongue with terms he was more sure of, "we're not going to have time to eat at all."

Sulu shook his head. "We've got to do something about your accent."

"What accent?"

A group of kiani, legal and medical experts from the design of their robes, emerged laughing and talking from the doorway of the eating establishment that Sulu and Chekov were passing. One of them, engaged in animated dialogue with one of his colleagues, bumped into a vendor of crockery. The vendor, with her wares balanced carefully on her head and shoulders, stumbled and a good portion of her load fell in the direction of the two Enterprise officers. Although Chekov was able to escape injury, Sulu was knocked sprawling into the general walkway. A seller of ornamental boxes tripped over him, in the process spilling his load and causing two other passers-by to collide and join them on the pavement.

The kiani who'd started it all rapped the head of the slave carrying his robe sharply. "See what you've done, you stupid, clumsy thing!"

"It wasn't her fault!" Chekov insisted, stepping between the kiani and his property.

A low-caste technician wearing the kiani's livery shoved Chekov in the chest. "Who are you to interfere with a kiani, alien trash?"

Chekov shoved him back. "Mind your own business!"

The low-caste, having the ill temperament that his society thought defined his social strata, took a swing at Chekov. Chekov dodged, and in deference to Kibria's strict codes of conduct pushed the technician into the crowd rather than giving him the gut punch Chekov felt he deserved.

"Here now!" The kiani pushed Chekov's shoulder, knocking him off balance and into another nearby high-caste. His colleague followed suit and shoved Chekov into the midsection of someone wearing a bright yellow robe.

Having regained his balance, and temporarily lost his regard for Kibrian gentility, Chekov gave the yellow robe the punch he'd withheld from the technician. In the midst of following up with an uppercut to the now doubled over yellow-robe's blue-black jaw, his newly gained knowledge of things Kibrian kicked in.

"No, Chekov!" a horrified Sulu warned desperately from underneath a tangle of irate pedestrians, broken pots and crushed ornamental boxes.

It was, however, too late for even Chekov to stop his fist from connecting with the chin of the person who, judging from his yellow robes, was a kiriar, in other words, a high magistrate.

Some unseen supporter of the kiriar gave Chekov a swift chop between his shoulders that momentarily robbed the ensign of his breath and dropped him to his knees. The kiriar's slaves then took over, quickly pinning Chekov face-down onto the ground before the enraged magistrate, whose face had gone an alarming shade of blue-black-purple.

"Chekov!" Sulu cried, struggling to free himself of the mass of Kibree and dry goods still entrapping him.

"Silence!" the kiriar roared. "I will have silence!"

Although complete silence was impossible in the midst of the crowded market place, the area around the yellow-robed official became remarkably quiet. Only the muffled sounds of Chekov trying to spit dirt out of his mouth while the kiriar's men continued to hold his head to the ground were audible while the magistrate balefully surveyed the crow

"Driant!" The kiriar turned to the kiani who'd made the original misstep. "You will pay a five-jewel fine for disturbing the peace. In addition you will compensate for the losses of these fine tradesmen."

Encouraged by this judgement, the crockery and box vendors suddenly seemed to regain their lost mobility. The box man even gave Sulu a cheerful hand up as the humbled kiani bowed his head and said, "Yes, kiriar, of course. My deepest apologies."

"And you, technician." The magistrate pointed at the low-caste who had attacked Chekov. "You will pay a 10 jewel fine and render 50 hours of community service for public brawling."

"Yes, sir." The Kibree didn't resist as legal technicians led him aside to be tagged for disciplinary work assignments. "Thank you for your generosity, kiriar."

"And this…" The magistrate placed one foot on Chekov's back, as if that, rather than the half-dozen servants restraining him, held the ensign down. "This ill-behaved piece of alien refuse will serve a term of three years servitude for having assaulted the person of a kiriar."

"Oh, my God!" Sulu exclaimed in Standard, shouldering his way through the crowd. "Kiriar, Kiriar!"

"Will you add him to your household, Magistrate?" one of the kiani asked, "or will the offworlder be available for open bid?"

"Magistrate," Sulu said, pushing his way to the front. "I apologise for my friend's behaviour. I assure you, he didn't know who you were. This has all been a terrible accident. We're both with the Federation detachment assigned to the Selrideen Environmental Station…"

"And as such, are subject to our laws," the kiriar pronounced, calmly stepping back as his minions secured Chekov's hands behind his back with a length of flexible metal. "This one goes to the highest bidder."

"Sulu!" Chekov protested, as he was hauled roughly to his feet. The magistrate's ever alert assistants quickly put an end to this potential bother by effectively gagging him with a sash from one of their costumes.

"I bid ten jewels," the kiani Chekov had been pushed into offered, then cannily added, "Although he is extremely ill-behaved."

"Fifteen," another countered, stepping in front of Sulu. "But I know he'll be impossible to train."

"Twenty," the kiani who'd started the brawl called out. "Despite the barbarous way he speaks our tongue."

Chekov's eyes went wide at what he perceived as insults rather than clever attempts to discourage other bidders. He struggled furiously in the implacable grip of the kiriar's servants, firmly cementing his lack of fitness for anything other than the slave caste into the consciousness of the Kibree.

"Magistrate!" Sulu called, as inspiration finally hit him. "May I at least be allowed to join the bidding?"

The kiriar shrugged magnanimously as Chekov's going price topped forty jewels. "If you have the cash in hand."

Other kiani drawn from the inside of the restaurant vigorously joined in the bidding. Sulu was pushed to the back of the crowd by the press of bystanders as he frantically searched his clothing and equipment for currency

"Sulu." A kiani that Sulu recognised as Uyal, an engineer from the environmental station, tapped him on the shoulder. "I didn't know Federation people were in the habit of buying each other."

"This is a special case." As the bidding reached one hundred jewels, Sulu looked helplessly at Chekov, realising that they had only a maximum of twenty jewels between them, and that Chekov had been carrying both their allotments.

"Indeed it is," Uyal said quite calmly. "Remarkable bad luck that your friend should have hit a kiriar. If I didn't know better, I'd say it had all been planned."

Sulu tore his eyes away from the bidders, who were now naming figures in excess of one hundred and fifty jewels. "What?"

"Of course, we both know it wasn't," the kiani continued, as if they were talking about the weather. "But there are several who have been eager to see one of you become available for purchase… especially his type."

Sulu frowned, reflecting that it was an incredible coincidence that he and Chekov should encounter such a large group of kiani this time of day. "What type's that?"

The engineer smiled and batted eyes that were more almond-shaped than Sulu's own. "The ones with round eyes. The women seem particularly drawn to them."

As the bids topped two hundred jewels, the crowd of prospective owners began to thin out.

"Listen, Uyal," Sulu began, knowing that engineers in particular were always pretty flush with cash. "I hate to impose on you, but could I possibly…"

"Borrow a few jewels?" The kiani shook his head. "That would be frowned upon by my colleagues."

Sulu's heart sank as the last competing kiani decided that two hundred and fifty jewels was too great a price to pay for an ill-mannered, untrainable alien, who couldn't speak the language properly.

"However," Uyal continued unexpectedly, "I would like to buy your boots for … oh, three hundred jewels?"

"Sold!" Sulu said, without pausing to consider. He then called out over the heads of the crowd, "I bid three hundred jewels!"

"Ridiculous!" Chekov's prospective owner exclaimed disgustedly. "I'll not pay such a foolish amount."

"You have this much with you?" the kiriar asked suspiciously.

Sulu pulled off his footgear and exchanged it for a heavy pouch of valuables from Uyal. "Yes!" he said, holding it up as he made his way back to the front of the throng.

The magistrate motioned to one of the legal technicians who came forward with a device that looked similar to the electronic clipboards they used on the Enterprise. "Then he's yours."

Chekov was in the midst of trying to breathe a sigh of relief through his gag, when the kiriar's men again laid hands on him. Three held him still while another placed a leash around his neck.

The legal technician took Sulu's money and held out the pad. "Sign here, please."

"Thank you for your generosity, Magistrate," Sulu said, ignoring Chekov's distress as he affixed his name to the document of sale and wondered how they were ever going to explain this to Captain Kirk.

"Now that he is your property, you will be held responsible for any antisocial actions he may commit," the kiriar warned.

"I assure you…" Sulu broke off at the sound of further struggle from Chekov's direction.

The kiriar's servants had loosened Chekov's right hand and held it out to the clerk, who pressed the back of the clipboard against it. The smell of chemicals and something burning filled the air as the clipboard made contact with Chekov's flesh. Despite the gag, the ensign was able to make a surprisingly loud noise that clearly read as pain.

"What are you do…" Sulu demanded, but as quickly as it had begun, the process was over. The legal technician pulled the clipboard away, revealing an enlarged version of Sulu's signature neatly burned into the skin of Chekov's right hand.

"It's completely safe. No chance of infection," one of the kiani assured Sulu, as Chekov stared in disbelief at the faint traces of smoke rising from the outlines of his friend's name that had suddenly become a part of his body.

The ensign was too stunned to resist when the kiriar's men retied his freshly imprinted hand and its unsigned mate in front of him and led him by the neck to Sulu.

"Offworlders!" the magistrate snorted contemptuously as Chekov's leash was handed to Sulu. Their business concluded, the kiriar and his entourage swept down the street, leaving the Enterprise officers in their dusty wake.

"Don't say anything yet," Sulu warned, scanning the thinning crowd for the new owner of his boots.

Chekov bit down on the gag that Sulu had apparently forgotten about.

"Uyal!" Sulu called, finally spotting his Kibrian ally.

The engineer was smiling happily as he approached. "That turned out well for everyone, didn't it?"

"Uh… yeah," Sulu said, looking at Chekov, who didn't look in any mood to agree with that at this point. "Thanks. You really saved us. About those boots, I'll buy them back from you as soon as we get back to the station."

"No, no," the Kibree refused politely.

"No, I've really got to do this," Sulu insisted, knowing that Starfleet didn't approve of its members selling their uniforms, no matter how noble the cause.

"I've already sold them."

"Sold them?"

"Yes, I got nearly six hundred for them." Uyal proudly shook a new, bulging money pouch. "There's quite a rage for Federation artefacts right now. They're so interesting, and so terribly hard to come by."

"Oh," was all Sulu could say as he scanned the marketplace, knowing his boots were by now carefully secreted away in some kiani's private chambers.

"Although you did pay a little too much, I think you got good value." Uyal gave Chekov the same kind of approving pat one might give to a fine piece of furniture. "After all, we both know he's much cleverer than they were giving him credit for, and from my observations of him, he's not that ill-behaved on the whole. I know it's a little strange to get used to owning servants at first, but once you get this one trained to your specifications, I'm sure you'll be quite happy. I'll see you at the station."

"Yeah, see you," Sulu said, giving Chekov a slight tug forward and away from Uyal. He could see from the murderous looks that the ensign was giving the Kibree that this was not a felicitous time to remove his gag. He quickly led his fellow officer down the street and around a corner that took them out of view of prying eyes. By the time he untied the gag from Chekov's mouth, the ensign's murderous looks were directed at him.

"Thank you, Master," were Chekov's first words. He spoke in Kibrian, and it was surprising that someone with such a shaky mastery of the language could manage to drip his words with so much sarcasm.

"Oh, come off it, Chekov," Sulu said, unwinding the flexible metal binding from around his wrists. "You're lucky I was able to come up with the money."

"I feel very lucky, Master." Chekov turned his hand so he could read it right side up. "I never realised you had such a lovely, and very, very large signature."

"Sorry about that." Sulu removed the leash from around Chekov's neck. "We've got to get back to the station as soon as possible."

"Oh, yes." Chekov gingerly traced the edges of the brand. "This is pretty deep. Using just the medikit we have at the station, it will take several hours to remove and heal over. I wish we could simply beam back up to the ship

"Yeah." Sulu bit his lip. He knew Chekov wasn't going to like what he was about to hear. Under the best circumstances, the ensign could have simply beamed up to the Enterprise and avoided Kibria for the next three years. However, since the Enterprise was currently occupied taking readings of the Herondian nebula, it looked as though they were simply going to have to make the best of the situation. "Uh… We can't take that off until you go back to the ship."

"Oh," was all Chekov said, but he was starting to get the same look on his face that he had while the Kibree were auctioning him off.

"C'mon." Sulu moved back into the street. "We've got to get back to the station."

It seemed to Chekov that every eye in the marketplace was on his right hand. He hastily clasped both his hands behind his back. "We could call the Enterprise."

"Yes." In deference to Chekov's discomfort, and his own bare feet, Sulu calculated the shortest and least stony path back to the station. "But they're about forty-eight hours away…"

"…Travelling at warp four to warp six in order to rendezvous on time with the Vulcan science vessel at the nebula," Chekov finished. "If they turned back at warp eight…"

"…Which they might not do," Sulu pointed out, picking a pathway through the vendors. "Your life's not in danger and there's no immediate threat of a diplomatic incident."

Chekov shook his head. "Even travelling at warp eight, the ship would still be several hours late to the rendezvous."

"The Vulcans might not be very happy, but they could probably live with it." Sulu was gaining more than an academic appreciation for how hot the ground got on a planet with twenty hour days. "It is an option."

Chekov mentally totalled the number of important and influential people he could seriously irritate by recalling the Enterprise. "No. I can just stay in the station. The Kibree there…"

"…Will treat you like you're my slave."

Chekov frowned. In addition to everything else, it was becoming difficult to walk as fast as Sulu with his hands clasped behind his back. "If I stay inside the station, couldn't we…?"

"No," said Sulu firmly. "That mark can't come off until we leave the planet. Like the kiriar said, we're bound to abide by their laws."

"Some of us are more bound than others," Chekov pointed out ruefully.

"You can confine yourself to quarters and work from the terminal there," Sulu suggested, as they rounded a corner and the station came into sight. "That's about the only way you could avoid the Kibree. We could switch and have you do some of the work Johnson is doing with the main computer."

Chekov winced at the thought of spending the next five days isolated with a computer terminal.

"It's an option," he said grudgingly. As they drew close to the main entrance, it also occurred to Chekov that no matter which of his poor options he chose, this was going to be an unmatched opportunity for the two other Enterprise officers assigned to the station, Ensigns Johnson and Davies, to get in some prime ribbing.

"It might not be that bad," Sulu said cheerfully, preceding him into the station's foyer.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

They were met by Kahsheel, a kiani engineer, and two mid-caste assistants.

"Mister Sulu," she said with a smile. "It is so fortunate that you've returned. You're needed in the control room immediately."

"Sorry we're late, but we ran into a little…" Sulu was moving towards the door to the interior of the station when his path was blocked by one of the mid-castes.

"Could I see your right hand, please?" Kahsheel asked politely.

Sulu and Chekov exchanged a look.

"Only those above the rank of slave are allowed in the control room," she explained, then gave a gesture to one of the mid-castes, who produced a pair of Kibrian boots to replace the ones Sulu had bartered away.

"Bad news travels fast," Chekov said, holding his hand stubbornly behind him.

"Kahsheel," Sulu protested, "I am aware of your customs, but I really need…"

The kiani waved a silencing hand at his objections. "Believe me, we would all like to have our personal servants with us while we work. However, they are simply too unreliable and potentially disruptive. If we make an exception for you in this case, we'll have no rebuttal to others making similar requests. There's no point having a rule if you continually make exceptions to it."

Sulu sighed, recognising the last as a Kibrian axiom that they felt was irrefutable. "All right. Chekov, report to your quarters for now. After I deal with the problem in the control room, you and I will discuss…" Sulu paused under a disapproving look from the Kibree. "I mean, I'll inform you of your new assignments."

"All right," Chekov said grudgingly, then responding to Sulu's elbow in his ribs, "I mean, yes, sir, Lieutenant."

"I will personally escort him there," Kahsheel offered generously. 

"I think I can find my own way to my quarters, miss," Chekov said indignantly.

"Ensign! You will not show disrespect to our Kibrian hosts!" Sulu barked in his best command voice, and led Chekov by the arm a little ways apart from the Kibree before their indignant looks turned into action. Then speaking softly in Standard to the ensign, he said, "If you refuse to go along with this, you're going to get both of us into a lot of trouble, mister."

"I'm not refusing," Chekov protested, in the same low tones. "But do I have to do the whole 'Yes, Master', 'No, Master', walking-three-steps-behind act?"

"Yes. And in this case it'll be walking four steps in front, not three behind. Don't make direct eye contact. Speak only when you're spoken to. Don't do anything until she tells you to," Sulu whispered urgently, then added at a volume the Kibree could understand, "Is that understood, mister?"

"Yes, sir!" Chekov replied loudly.

"Well, go on," Sulu prompted out of the side of his mouth.

"And do what?" Chekov whispered back.

"Go and stand four steps in front of her and wait for her to tell you to go."

Feeling a deep blush rising in his cheeks, Chekov moved to what he estimated to be the correct position and stood facing the corridor that led to his quarters with his back towards the group.

One final, "This is ridiculous!" burst uncontrollably from his lips.

"Starting now, Ensign!" Sulu reminded him sharply.

"Yes, sir!"

"Now you know what we have to go through," Kahsheel said to Sulu, with a superior nod towards Chekov's stiff back.

"Right." Sulu frowned as he pulled on the Kibrian boots. "I'll see what's wrong in the control room."

"All right, you," Kahsheel ordered Chekov, "move along."

Chekov started down the corridor, biting back the many rude things he wished to say. It was no wonder to him that the lower castes were thought to be ill-tempered, bad mannered, surly and rebellious. He could now see they had a good deal more reason for being that way than the upper castes.

Kahsheel's behaviour was a particular disappointment. Up to this point she'd been one of Chekov's favourites among the kiani engineers working at the station. She was quite attractive, even by human standards. Her skin was a creamy shade of umber and her upswept eyes were a clear green. Her hair fell in long golden-red curls halfway down her back. Chekov had even entertained the notion that she seemed to favour him, but that was before he'd become one of the untouchables. He sighed as they approached his quarters and automatically reached for the door release.

"No." Kahsheel's voice stopped his fingers inches from their destination. "I've not given you permission

"But…" The kiani's finger on his lips silenced his protest.

"I know that it's locked," Kahsheel said firmly, "and that only your fingerprint can open it. But you must wait for me to give you permission. Normally you'd not be allowed to touch electronic equipment at all."

Chekov glared at her, until he remembered Sulu's crash course in slave behaviour and directed his gaze more properly towards the floor.

"Much better." Chekov would have liked to strangle the smug satisfaction out of the kiani's voice. "Now you may open it."

Chekov pressed the release button and stepped inside his quarters, thankful that the ordeal was over for now. However, Kahsheel unexpectedly joined him. She walked to the middle of his room and surveyed the ample quarters that had been provided for him while Chekov wondered how best to politely tell her to get the hell out.

"You have a lot to learn about being a slave," she commented judiciously.

Chekov decided that this constituted having been spoken to, freeing him to speak. "Well, I haven't had much practice at it."

"I know." Kahsheel placed a patronising hand on his shoulder. "At least, not yet."

Chekov suddenly felt a sharp stabbing sensation. It seemed to come from beneath the kiani's hand, perhaps from one of the rings she wore. It felt as though a pin had been forced briefly beneath his skin. As he quickly pulled away, he felt the telltale warmth of some sort of drug invading his system. He lurched forward for the room's com unit but Kahsheel was in the way. He tried to push her aside, but suddenly seemed to have no strength. His knees gave way and he slid to the floor still holding onto her arms. The brown of her robe blended into the darkness gathering at the edges of his vision until finally only darkness remained.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Sulu quickened his pace as he neared Chekov's quarters. He thought he heard something out of place. The first thing he saw when he rounded the corner was a clump of machinery lying tangled on the floor. It was a security unit with a palm plate and keypad that until recently had been a part of the door to Chekov's quarters. The unfamiliar noise Sulu had heard was the sound of a Kibree workman affixing a large ornate lock on the heavy wooden door that now hung in the entrance.

"Ah, Mister Sulu." Datvin, the station's manager, greeted him warmly. "You've caught us before we're quite done."

Sulu could only manage a sickly smile in return, dreading Chekov's reaction to what the Kibree had insisted on as the bare minimum of modifications that had to be made to accommodate the ensign's new status. "I appreciate your letting me retain these quarters for my… for Chekov."

The manager's expression soured perceptibly, as if someone had slipped a slice of lemon into his dish of sweets. "The room is rather large for a servant, but it will be more convenient for you if he is nearby… Particularly if you intend to use him for some of the technical aspects of your work."

This, Sulu knew, was the sore point. Half the kiani objected to his request to use Chekov as a technical assistant because they felt it was socially inappropriate. The other half were jealous because they couldn't do the same with their slaves. Datvin looked as though he neatly combined the two views. "The kiani have been most indulgent with me," Sulu replied diplomatically.

"Yes," the manager agreed with a pointed smile.

The silent workman completed his task and handed the door's key to Datvin.

"This," the station manager said, as he presented it to Sulu, "is for you. I'm sure it's not necessary to remind you that it is inappropriate for those of slave caste to be in possession of keys of any sort."

"Of course." Sulu accepted it with all the graciousness he could muster and pushed the door open. 

There were several workmen inside. Two were disconnecting the room's workstation in preparation for its being wheeled away. Another exited lugging what was once the room's food dispenser. Sulu immediately noticed that another vital element was missing from the room.

"Where's Chekov?" he asked, as calmly as he could.

The station manager pulled another long face. "You must give him immediate and firm instructions on holding his tongue in the presence of his betters. You are responsible for his behaviour now, you know." 

A whole range of frightening scenarios flashed in Sulu's brain. "He didn't…?"

"He was questioning my workmen in a manner and tone that was completely inappropriate."

"Oh." Sulu knew that from one of Chekov's new status, a simple "What the hell do you think you're doing?" would be shockingly unbecoming. "I apologise, and will see that it doesn't happen again. What did you do with him?" 

"Out of deference to you we didn't punish him," Datvin said, his graciousness clearly grudging. "I merely had my workmen confine him to one of the storage cabinets."

There did seem to be a faint rustling coming from one of the closets at the far end of the room.

"Funny." The manager crossed his arms regally. "I don't seem to be able to remember which one it was now."

At that there was a distinct but muffled thud that sounded suspiciously like the heel of a Star Fleet issued boot coming into contact with the inside of a closet door.

"I think I can find him," Sulu said politely as he held the door open for the manager and the remaining two workmen. "Again, I apologise, and thank you for all your efforts."

"We seek to accommodate our Federation guests," Datvin returned, exiting with a formal bow.

Sulu gratefully pushed the door closed behind them. "Oh, Chekov," he sighed, as he homed in on the storage cabinets. Opening the door to an empty walk-in closet, he found the Enterprise's navigator sitting cross-legged on the floor.

"Is this what it's going to take to keep you out of trouble?" he asked, giving his friend a hand up.

"Sanctimonious barbarians!" Chekov muttered hotly, but his hand in Sulu's was cold and shaking.

"Are you all right?" Sulu noted that Chekov seemed to need his help to rise a little more than he'd expected.

"No, gracious Master," Chekov said with black humour, rubbing his eyes as if he were dizzy. "Your humble property isn't at his best right now."

"What's the matter?" Sulu asked, then quickly amended, "Other than the obvious?"

"I'm not sure. I could use a drink."

They both looked at the hole in the wall where the ensign's food dispenser used to be.

"Maybe later," Sulu said. "What happened?"

"I don't know." Chekov walked over to his bed and sat down heavily. "When I woke, Kahsheel told me I'd fainted — probably from the heat, skipping lunch, over excitement, and uh…" he gestured reluctantly to the brand on his right hand. "…the obvious. A few minutes after she left the workmen arrived and began to restore my quarters to the proper decor for the dark ages."

"You passed out?"

"That's what she told me. I think I was drugged."

Sulu frowned. "Why would she want to do that?"

"I don't know."

Sulu shook his head. His instincts were telling him there was something less than random about the whole incident that had put Chekov in this predicament. There was something fishy going on with Chekov and the Kibree, but none of it made sense yet. "I've only been gone a little over an hour."

Chekov nodded. "I estimate I was unconscious for around twenty minutes."

"Twenty minutes, hmmm…" Sulu twisted the room key as he thought. "That's not long at all. What could she have done to you alone for twenty minutes?"

Both their imaginations kicked in simultaneously.

"No," Chekov insisted. "She wouldn't have…"

"Well, you always said she liked you," Sulu said, half-teasing now.

"I was unconscious!" Chekov protested.

Sulu shrugged. "Different strokes for different folks."

Chekov turned a little pink but shook his head adamantly.

"Johnson's got the medical scanner patched into one of his experiments," Sulu said, sobering. "I'll get him to disconnect it and we'll check and see if there's anything suspicious floating around in your bloodstream. It is possible you just fainted, isn't it?"

Perhaps." Chekov examined Sulu's upside-down signature on the back of his hand critically. "This was a shock to my system, to say the least. Although it seems that if I was going to faint at all, I would have done so immediately. I suppose there could have been delayed repercussions, a reaction to the difference in temperature between the market place and the station…"

The ensign didn't seem at all persuaded by any of the explanations he was laying out. However, there didn't appear to be anything either of them could do about it until they could get access to their medical equipment.

"Do you feel like doing some work now?" Sulu asked.

Chekov looked at the empty space where his computer used to be. "What can I do?"

"Come to my room," Sulu said, opening the door.

"Oh, I see," Chekov replied, following him out. "What did you have in mind, Master? A little light cleaning? Perhaps I could polish your boots."

"Don't say anything about boots," Sulu warned, pausing to lock the door to Chekov's quarters.

"Don't worry, Master," Chekov said cheerily as he preceded him properly down the corridor. "I'll have plenty of time to knit you a pair by the time the Enterprise gets back."

"Oh, God," Sulu groaned, beginning to dread the return of his ship as his list of things that were going to be difficult to explain grew. He was puzzled when Chekov came to an abrupt halt in front of the entrance to his quarters. "What is it?"

Chekov gestured to the electronic lock. "After you, Master."

"I thought you set these up so that any of us…"

"I did," Chekov agreed, "but Kibrian society, whose rules I am required to go along with in order to avoid both of us getting into a lot of trouble, is set up so that I can't use electronic equipment."

"Why did it have to be you?" Sulu asked as he triggered the door release. "Why couldn't I own Ensign Johnson instead?"

Chekov shrugged as he entered. "If Johnson suddenly became a slave, could you really tell the difference?"

"That's exactly my point." Sulu crossed to his terminal and activated it. "You know, Chekov, you aren't exactly a model of subordination most of the time."

"Who, me, Master?" the ensign asked innocently.

"I don't think there's anyone on the ship you're really afraid of," Sulu said as he entered the proper sequence of access codes, "except maybe the captain."

"I'm not afraid of Captain Kirk," Chekov said, pulling a chair up beside him.

"Wait until he gets here."

Chekov winced at what he was seeing on the screen. "Not the fluorcarbon ratios," he pleaded.

Sulu crossed his arms unsympathetically. "Listen, slave, you don't know how I had to kick and scream to get this much for you to do. As it is, the rest of us are going to be running overtime to keep up. We've had to cancel a few of Johnson's experiments entirely. Believe me, most of the people in this station would be a lot happier if I had you in here dusting. Which reminds me…"

Chekov picked up on his change of tone immediately. The younger man turned and gave him one of his brown-eyed lamb-to-the-slaughter looks.

Sulu cleared his throat guiltily. "In order to get them to agree to let me have you do this sort of thing, I had to make a few concessions…"

Chekov bit his lip. "Concessions?"

"To their way of thinking, it's very unfair for me to have my own servant and expect other people's staff to take care of me," Sulu explained, but somehow it didn't sound nearly as reasonable coming out of his mouth as it had from the kianis. "So, it looks like you won't be able to just stay in here or in your quarters all the time. You'll have to do things… like run errands."

"Errands?" Chekov repeated dubiously. "What sort of errands?"

"Oh, just anything that I or… or…" Sulu faltered, but knew it was no use delaying breaking it to him. "Anything that I or anyone else of higher caste asks you to do. If the kiani see you standing around, they'll feel they have every right to put you to work. So I'll try to keep you busy. Look, Pavel, there's no getting around it. You're going to have to act the part too. Remember Hisfal, one of the computer specialists? She's helping me put together a tape on proper behaviour for you."

"How kind of her," Chekov said unkindly. "Anything else?"

"Well, I did actually say you'd do any cleaning of my quarters that needed to be done — which I'll help you out with of course. Just don't be surprised if someone shows up with a mop and bucket for you."

"Very little would surprise me right now," the ensign assured him. "And?"

"And you'll have to wait on me in the main dining room. You've seen how that's done."

The food dispensers in their quarters were set up only to give them drinks. Courtesy and necessity forced the Enterprise officers to accept the hospitality of the kianis' dining hall. Chekov had been on the receiving end of the silent, self-effacing service that so added to the room's formal atmosphere.

"Of course. I should have anticipated that." Chekov looked a good deal less than enthusiastic. "When will I eat?"

"It's not so much a matter of when as it is of where," Sulu replied delicately. "You're to report to the kitchens an hour and a half before all mealtimes to help prepare and serve the food. They say they'll see you're fed then."

Chekov crossed his arms unhappily. "I feel like I'm being punished."

"Yeah. Exactly. See, to the Kibree what you did was criminal and they're pretty adamant that they see you pay for it. You're just lucky you only have to go through five days of this rather than three years." Sulu immediately regretted using the word "lucky" in connection with any of this. "Maybe that's the best way for you to deal with this situation. Just look at it as a form of disciplinary action."

"In addition to what I'll probably get when I get back to the ship," Chekov added glumly. 

"Let's not dwell on that right now," Sulu said, thinking of his own culpability in the matter.

"No, that's my only consolation," Chekov insisted. "After this, being confined to quarters for the next three months will seem like heaven."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

In the control room, a large, windowless apartment lined with computer consoles and gleaming white display boards, looking far more at ease than he did in the more ancient parts of the station, Ensign Johnson was patiently scrolling though their detailed mission specification. "I can take over the power calculations, and the manpower estimates that Chekov was scheduled to complete, sir. Once I've done that, the economic impact assessment is relatively straightforward. We're already…" He paused to check off a box that he'd forgotten to initial earlier. "…thirty seven percent through by my calculations, so even if Chekov does nothing…"

Sulu watched him, feeling mildly envious of the man's willingness to keep track of his own and everyone else's work so meticulously.

"What is he going to do?" Davies broke in dismissively. "Sitting around while the rest of us do his work doesn't sound like much of a sanction to me." The female member of the team was their computer specialist, charged with adapting Federation software for primitive Kibrian computers. "Are you sure he didn't do this deliberately, Sulu?"

"Chekov is far too responsible to do anything of the kind," Sulu said evenly. 

Davies smiled to herself as if she knew better. "I suppose this means he'll be restricted to quarters when he's not working, too," she said. "Oh well, if the mountain won't come to Mohammed…"

She stopped, aware that both Sulu and Johnson were looking at her. "I mean, he'll get bored. Someone ought to keep him company."

"I don't think he's going to have that problem, Miss Davies. The Kibrians have a work schedule all laid out for him, as far as I can see," Sulu reassured her grimly.

Johnson nodded. "Yes, I've heard some complaints that no additional staff have been budgeted for our stay. Normally, visiting high caste Kibrians arrive with a household of servants and low castes to share in the domestic work."

"They're going to make him wash floors and do the dishes? Poor Chekov…" The laughter in Davies' voice belied her apparent sympathy.

"And wait at table, apparently," Sulu confirmed, moving back to the workstation he'd been using before he'd called his team together to assess their progress. "I think it would be helpful if we all tried to play down the situation as much as possible."

"Yes, sir," the two ensigns chorused obligingly, but Davies' eyes were bright with amusement while Johnson shook his head worriedly. "He's not going to like this, sir."

"The thought had occurred to me, Johnson. We'll handle it somehow." Sulu snapped his screen on and went back to work.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chekov goes to work in the stations' kitchens

"Now to your rrrRight!"

Chekov rolled his eyes as he obediently changed direction to move through an archway. After a few hours with only fluorcarbon ratios for company, he'd begun to look forward to his upcoming mealtime servitude as a welcome change of pace. He now knew he was very wrong. Hours of boredom were preferable to this sort of humiliation.

Since as a slave he was too unreliable and untrustworthy to be allowed to simply follow his nose to the station's kitchens, the Kibree had provided an escort. Gebain was a tall, blue-skinned, lower mid-caste major domo who would have made an excellent drill sergeant. 

"Step liiiveleee," he barked in rhythm to the pace he was maintaining, just as he had every time he felt Chekov was letting the prescribed four paces between them narrow.

Chekov tried to lengthen his strides to match the sound of the long-legged Kibree's footfalls. It was preferable to being stopped and bawled out yet again. Although the ensign couldn't understand more than half of what was being said to him, Gebain unfailingly chose to chastise him in places where audiences of his former co-workers — who could understand all that was being said — could listen in as they lounged in the cool corridors taking a mid-afternoon break. Chekov was quite sure that that if anyone on the station was unaware that he had become a slave — and not a particularly good or even promising one at that — they now knew.

"Aaand come tooo a HALT!"

"Oh, God," Chekov groaned to himself in Standard as he halted in front of a large black door. "What have I done now?"

"What was that?" the major domo fairly shouted in his left ear.

"Nothing, Mister Gebain," he replied very respectfully in Kibrian, reminding himself once more that he was under strict orders not to argue or in any way give offence to anyone — no matter the provocation. An even more persuasive argument for holding his tongue was his knowledge that now as a member of the lowest caste he could be punished (within certain parameters) virtually at will. He'd only seen the kiani scold their servants. However Sulu had informed him this was because they considered themselves of too delicate a nature to dirty their hands with anything more severe. For any sort of heavy duty correction, the kiani called in someone of a caste with less refined sensibilities — someone probably very like the redoubtable Mister Gebain.

"I'll thank you not to mutter," the Kibree said, moving in front of him.

Chekov raised his eyebrows. This promised to be a new twist on being yelled at. Up until this point, Gebain had made quite a point of screaming at the ensign's back while he remained facing forwards. Two or three of the first few times Chekov had been stopped to be shouted at he'd also been shouted at for turning around to listen to what was being said to him.

"This…" The tall Kibree tapped the door frame. "is the entrance to the kitchens that you will use from now on."

Chekov almost sighed in relief. At least the long journey from his quarters was over. However trepidation about what awaited him on the other side of that door began to set in. He considered somewhat ruefully that he had ignored the lower castes pretty thoroughly himself. If he'd paid more attention, he'd have had a better idea of what to expect now. From what he knew of the caste system, behind this door would be the slow, the untrainable, the physically disadvantaged and the criminal. There might also, of course, be others like himself, mere victims of injustice. He took some comfort in this mental picture of himself as leaven in an unpromising dough.

"You will meet me here at precisely five minutes BEFORE the blue hour of each meal to receive any instructions I may care to give you," Gebain was saying.

Chekov had wondered why the Kibree used both numbers and colors to label hours of the day. As a free person, he'd only been aware of the use of numbers to designate time. Now as a servant, he'd learned that the color system designated a schedule of work periods. Knowing when breakfast's blue hour, or preparation period, fell was now more important than knowing what time that meal was scheduled to be served had ever been.

"I don't care how tired you are, or what fancy work your master has you doing," Gebain said. "If you are so much as one second late, I'll come looking for you. And you know by now you don't want that to happen, don't you?"

Chekov smiled ruefully. "Indeed, sir."

"Don't try to be clever!" The Kibree pointed a menacing finger in his face. "And don't smile at me! Now you're to go in there and peel shork until you're told to quit. I will be back for you when it's time for you to serve in the main hall. Understood?"

"Understood," Chekov replied, then, considering that this might also be seen as attempted cleverness, he changed his answer to, "I mean… yes, sir!"

"I've got an eye on you," Gebain warned, taking the doorknob to the kitchen in one hand and Chekov's upper arm in the other. Music hit them like a solid wall as he opened the heavy door. It was rhythmic, raucous and peppered with the ringing metallic percussion of a kitchen in full swing. As Gebain thrust Chekov forward into the room, he bawled out over the din, "New slave in the hall! New slave in the hall!"

As the door slammed behind him, a Kibrian woman swathed in meters of tropical color dived forward and swept a small child away from under his feet. The terror in her face startled him. That wasn't the usual reaction among the Kibree of any caste to offworlders. Contempt was frequently enough directed at people who were casteless by natives for whom caste defined their whole existence, but never before had he seen dread. Chekov attempted to make a friendly gesture towards mother and child, but was roughly pushed back against the door. On one side of him was an exceptionally tall Kibree with skin as dark as any Chekov had seen. On the other side was a dwarfish man with terracotta skin and a face that was twisted into a permanent leer. Both blocked his further entrance into the room.

"Gall's balls, it's a Feddie!" the tall man exclaimed in a booming voice.

"Damned if it's not the lookly one, too," the dwarf said, curiously reaching out and fingering the material of Chekov's tunic.

At least that's what Chekov thought they said. Sulu's crash course in the language had prepared him for the polite accents of the scientific community, not the rough slang of the servants' quarters.

"Hey, Feddie." The tall man thumped him on the chest. "You the one that took a bop to Tunnas?"

Chekov blinked at him. "What?"

"You sapped down the kiriar," the dwarf explained, miming a powerful uppercut. "Took a chomp at his nood, hey?"

"Oh… oh, yes," Chekov replied, helped more by the pantomime than the linguistic alternatives presented. "I hit a magistrate, but it was all a terrible mistake."

"Take ease, Nula," the tall man called to the woman who was still clutching her child. "This one won't give harm to your wee nammie."

"Any slag who'll give licks to a kirrie can take ease with me," a one-eyed servant taking a break from scrubbing the floor said approvingly.

"Aeyo, slags!" a hawk-faced Kibree in a low-caste cook's uniform called out from a doorway leading into one of the inner kitchens. "Hop to, or you'll all take licks from me!"

"Copped a chore yet, Feddie?" the tall man asked Chekov as the one-eyed man made what looked like an obscene gesture at the cook's back.

"Su!" exclaimed a young female Kibree from across the room. "I scan him a stirrer!"

She was standing with three other women over a cooking pit. They were all employed stirring large kettles of an unknown substance with long wooden paddles. After making her incomprehensible announcement, she started removing the splattered cloth over her garments as if making preparations for him to take her place.

"Actually," Chekov protested as it became quickly apparent that that was precisely what everyone expected him to do, "I was told to peel…"

"Give quiet, Feddie," the dwarf admonished him gruffly, leading him forward by the elbow. "You've been scanned a stirrer

"But…" Not knowing what the mysterious process of having been "scanned" something was, Chekov was quite at a loss as to how to get out of it.

The Kibree woman who had 'scanned' him eagerly met him halfway. "Take watch careful, Feddie," she advised, wrapping her food splattered cloth under his arms like an apron as the dwarf guided him firmly towards the tall blue pots. "Don't give a burn."

"Take ease, mort," the dwarf said, tapping one of the women. "I'm taking sight of Feddie."

Chekov was still puzzling over what 'giving a burn' might entail as the Kibree woman wound a kerchief-sized cloth round each of his hands and placed them on the handle of a wooden paddle still stuck in the bubbling, gooey, gray slime inside the blue kettle in front of him.

"Take ease, Feddie!" she said, apparently wishing him well as she abandoned him for cooler parts of the kitchen.

The dwarfish man, now similarly attired, stepped up to take a place at the kettle beside his.

"I'm taking sight of you, Feddie," he said, in a tone so solemn it was almost threatening. Moving slowly and exaggerating his movements, the dwarf demonstrated the proper grip and technique for stirring. "Give stir," he encouraged Chekov at the end of his presentation. "Give stir."

"Oh," Chekov said as comprehension dawned on him. Still not understanding exactly why the dwarf was 'taking sight' of him — whatever that meant — he moved to mimic the Kibree's actions. In response the dwarf gave an ambivalent grunt that Chekov took as provisional approval.

Looking around the kitchen, he saw that everyone was occupied. Even the smallest children were working at sorting beans. The music that could be heard over the burble of conversation and the clang of pots Chekov could now see was issuing from a playback device mounted on one wall. Somehow that spoiled his original impression of aboriginal abandon. The finer points of the preparation of specific dishes were carried out in the inner kitchens. From his vantage point he could see low-caste cooks in one of the rooms branching off from this one busy at tasks that the lowest caste was considered incompetent to perform — like seasoning dishes or handling bladed utensils. The absence of automation in this sub-kitchen was striking. Despite the number of slaves engaged in scrubbing something, the lack of basic hygiene was also notable. For instance, on the opposite side of the room young boys scraped food off crockery, then after giving them a quick dunking in a tub of water, wiped them off and stacked them as if they were clean. The table of people busy doing what he believed to be peeling shork — a shrimp-like crustacean — did so with their bare hands, often, he noted, wiping their mouths or noses without significantly interrupting their task.

Peeling shork seemed to him to be one of the better jobs. Although perhaps faster paced than stirring, it did involve sitting at a table in a cool part of the kitchen rather than standing over a hot cooking pit.

The dwarf's elbow made contact with Chekov's ribs. "Take watch, Feddie!" the Kibree warned him, nodding towards the kettle in front of him.

"Oh, yes," he said, turning his attention back to his task. He realized another use for the cloths around his palms as he watched one of the two women stirring the pots directly across from him swipe perspiration off her forehead with her hand cloth, deftly managing not to break the rhythm of her stir. The two women had the advantage of having their hair tied up in head wraps. His own was already hanging damply below his eyebrows. As he paused to mop it out of his face, he caught his fellow stirrers taking covert glances at him. They were exceedingly plain women of indeterminate age who looked very alike except one had blue skin and the other green.

"I've taken sight of you previous, Feddie," the green one said boldly after he'd made eye contact.

"I also," the blue one chimed in with a nervous giggle that revealed she had several teeth missing.

"Oh, really?" Chekov said pleasantly. There was little else he could think of to say. It was entirely possible that he'd encountered both of them before and paid more attention to the furniture in the room at the time.

"I took sweet of your sight," the green one said with unmistakable friendliness.

"I too," her friend confessed. "You being so lookly and shiny-toothed."

Chekov could somehow tell that these were meant to be compliments from their manner of delivery. He had to smile at the only nice things that had been said to him all afternoon. "Thank you."

"I now take sweet to be taking sight of you in slag hall, but I don't take understanding of a lookly Feddie taking a bop at a kirrie," the green woman said with a concerned look on her face.

"Su," her companion agreed, apparently sharing her concern. "What came past? Did you take a temper at him?"

"I seem to have taken leave of my senses," Chekov answered, assuming that they were referring to his fateful encounter with the magistrate. "If that's what you mean."

This seemed to be a witticism of some sort, for both women burst into laughter and even the dwarf had to smile.

"Su, would you take a hearing of how slidely he gives speech!" the blue one exclaimed

"Slidely enough," green agreed. "I take it sweet though."

"Comes the cook," the dwarf warned tersely as a low-caste carrying a small pot moved across the room in their direction. Without looking around to confirm, the women quickly sobered and returned their focus to their work. Chekov decided it was wisest to follow their example.

"Don't let the bottom burn, slags," the cook advised as he reached over their shoulders to add spices from the pot in turn to each kettle. He came to a sudden halt when he reached Chekov. Chekov forced himself to not meet the Kibree's eyes as the cook gave him a leisurely version of the now-familiar disbelieving first look he'd received from a variety of Kibree today. The low-caste even pushed the cloth up his hand to check for the presence of a brand. "Got you working for your food now, hey, Feddie?" 

Chekov bit his tongue on the reply that came to mind. Instead he concentrated on folding the purple flakes of spice into the gray pudding with very even strokes of his own paddle. 

"Work hard, Feddie," the cook advised him, giving him a cheerfully patronizing slap on the shoulder. "We'll teach you how to sweat."

"Su," the blue woman giggled, nudging her companion as they watched Chekov observe the cook's departure through narrowed eyes. "Give sight to how quick he takes temper."

Chekov felt the dwarf's elbow touch his ribs again.

"Give bop to cook and you'll take the worst, Feddie," the Kibree advised him weightily.

"Why does everyone call me 'feddie'," Chekov demanded, his supply of patience running dangerously low.

His companions looked at each other, seemingly surprised at the question.

"You are Feddie," the green woman said, as if this should be self-evident.

"I don't understand 'feddie'," he burst out. "Show me what is 'feddie'."

His companions looked at him blankly, then all pointed at him.

"No, no…" This linguistic barrier seemed to be insurmountable. "What else… or who else is 'feddie'?"

"Here?" the green woman asked, and Chekov thought he saw a faint gleam of understanding spark in her eyes.

"Yes!"

She shook her head. "None."

"Oh, God," he said to himself in Standard.

"He's so Feddie, he doesn't take understanding of what is Feddie," the dwarf said to the women, jerking his head towards Chekov.

"Su." This seemed to clear things up for the green woman. "You are Feddie," she told Chekov, speaking as slowly and clearly as her dialect would allow. "We are Kibbie. You come of the Feddie place."

Chekov could tell that this was as good an explanation as he was going to get. 'Feddie place' seemed to make a kind of sense to him. "Feddie… Federation?" he said experimentally. "Is that what you mean? I'm of the Federation — a Feddie — and you're Kibbie — or Kibree?" The moment he'd said it aloud it was embarrassingly obvious.

"In slidely speech," the green woman agreed with a nod. "Don't take temper at slaggish talk, Feddie."

"Take watch," the dwarf warned, reminding him of his forgotten kettle.

"I'm sorry," Chekov apologized, resuming his task. "I didn't understand. I thought it was something bad, an insult."

"Perhaps Feddie's copped a name," the blue woman suggested, as if that could explain his ill-humor. "You copped a name yet, Feddie?"

Chekov still hadn't fathomed the process of "copping" quite yet. "My name is Chekov."

The women nodded as if they thought this was a fine name.

"Take ease, brother Chekov," the green woman said, as if that were a sort of greeting. "I copped Dollu as name."

'Take ease' seemed to be the most useful phrase in the slave dialect. He'd already heard it used to mean hello, goodbye, I'm relieving you, and don't worry.

"I'm pleased to know you, Dollu," he said politely. "And you're called..?"

When the blue woman lowered her eyes, Dollu answered for her, "She's copped no name."

The blue woman shamefacedly pushed the cloth on her hand out of the way so he could see her brand. "I take call Property of Mahtab."

Dollu copied her gesture, with a sympathetic look for her friend who was not fortunate enough to have her own name. "Property of Sitag."

"Property of Sulu," Chekov said, baring his hand in a gesture of proletarian solidarity with them.

They all looked at the dwarf, who stubbornly revealed neither his name, nor the name of his owner. "I'll take more sight of Feddie before I give aught," he said curtly.

"Su," Dollu chided him. "Don't take a temper."

"Sulu…" The blue woman pronounced the name as if she was trying to place it. "Kibbie?"

"No, Feddie," Chekov answered before he caught himself. "I mean, no, he's of the Federation like me."

Dollu's eyes lit up as if she'd figured it out. "Kibbie-eyed though?"

"You could say that Mister Sulu has eyes like the Kibree," Chekov agreed tentatively.

"Ah." This seemed to satisfy her. She turned and explained to her friend, "Sulu, the Kibbie-eyed Feddie, took property of this lookly Feddie."

Chekov wasn't sure if he like the tenor of this clarification.

"Half-Kibbie," the dwarf asserted confidently as Chekov tried to think of a way to voice his objections.

"No, Sulu's not a half-Kibbie," he said. "He's all Feddie… I mean…"

"Hey! Pay attention to what you're doing there!" The low-caste cook in charge of whatever it was they were cooking entered with more ingredients for his brew. "Just because you two morts have a pretty boy Feddie to look at don't mean you can slack off on your work," he scolded the women as he dumped aromatic slices of something into their pots. "I'd better not find the bottom burnt on any of these."

Again, the cook managed to wind up beside Chekov. Satisfaction radiated off the Kibree as he stood overseeing his work crew with hands on hips. Apparently, having a Federation officer as one of his stirrers was just making his day. "How're your arms holding out, Feddie?"

The dwarf's elbow in his ribs told Chekov this was not a rhetorical question.

"Fine." His own military training allowed him to recognize the sound of a superior awaiting an honorific. "…Sir."

The cook dipped a wooden stick into the brew then brought it gingerly to his tongue. "We'll give it five or ten more minutes," he judged expertly. "And don't let me catch you lot slacking off again."

"Cossack," Chekov muttered after him when he was sure the Kibree was out of range.

"Give quiet, Feddie," the dwarf said irritably.

"Su…"

"You also, morts," the little man cut off the women's protests abruptly.

Dollu made a little noise that communicated that she didn't approve of such ill-temper but lapsed into silence none the less.

Chekov wiped the sweat off his face as best he could. Despite what he'd said to the cook, his arms were beginning to complain. His hair was sticking to the back of his neck and his uniform was sticking to him all over. He pushed his sleeves up and cast an envious glance at the table of shork peelers. They too were in the middle of receiving a visit from their inner kitchen supervisor. The cook was nodding approvingly at their efforts. Under her direction, preparations began to be made for the transfer of the peeled shork into the inner kitchens and the disposal of the discarded shells and remains.

It was not the most efficient operation Chekov had ever observed. The most bumbling group of midshipmen could have done the job more quickly and neatly. The slaves put a calculated minimum of care and effort into each move. Small children and other workers constantly got in the way. Even the shouting low-caste cook became just another obstacle to help slow down the process. When one of the slaves tripped and spilled a bucket of freshly peeled shork, the meat was simply swept off the floor and back into its container. A few bits of meat, Chekov noted, were calmly retrieved from a scrubber's mop water and added back to the pile.

The goo in his kettle was gradually beginning to thicken and get harder to stir as the peelers finally got rid of the last bag of shork debris and began to scrub down the long table.

"Su, but it's taking heavy, hey?" Dollu said to him sympathetically. Although obviously more practiced at the fine art of stirring, she also seemed to be encountering increased resistance to the firm strokes from her wooden paddle. "Almost done."

"Perhaps Feddie will take meal by us," the blue woman suggested shyly to her companion instead of directly to Chekov.

"Yes, Feddie, you take meal by us morts," Dollu informed him enthusiastically.

"I'm taking sight of Feddie," the dwarf protested cantankerously.

"Our cook is coming," Chekov warned his companions, as the low caste approached, flanked by a group of slave assistants.

"All right, slags. Let's see the damage," he said, taking the paddle from the blue woman. The cook gave a final stir to the porridge, apparently testing its texture. He then removed the paddle, checked its tip for telltale signs of burned lumps of grey goo, then dipped his tasting stick into the brew. "This goes," he said, stepping out of the way for two of the men accompanying him to carry the big kettle away between two slabs of wood.

As the low caste repeated the process with Dollu and the dwarf's kettles, Chekov began to imagine that he could detect a faint burning odor mingling with the smell of the grey stuff before him. The way his luck was running today, it seemed almost inevitable that it would be burned. All he could do as the cook took his paddle in hand was stand back and wonder how large a crime he'd committed this time.

The dregs clinging to the long wooden paddle were markedly lumpier than the previous three. There was also a noticeable darkening of the grey mess stuck to its tip.

"You know what this is, Feddie?" the cook asked, sticking it under his nose. "This is almost burned. That means this is almost very big trouble for you."

Chekov didn't know whether or not he should be happy simply to be in big rather than very big trouble.

"But… I'll let you get away with it this time," the cook said magnanimously. "I suppose we can't be too hard on you on your first day in slag hall. All you need is a lot of practice. And believe me, you're going to get it. I'll see to it that you get as good as these morts at this job."

The cook seemed to be waiting for something as he signaled the last two remaining assistants to carry away the kettle. "Well?" he prompted.

Chekov could think of a great many things he'd like to say, but none that he was required to say. "Sir?"

The low-caste gave him a menacing grin. "You'd better thank me for letting you off so easy."

Chekov cleared his throat, fixed his gaze properly on the floor and vowed to take a long slow revenge for this some day. "Thank you."

After the cook departed into the inner kitchen, Chekov speculated on his probable parentage and sexual proclivities using a Russian phrase so vile he doubted it could ever be properly translated into any other language.

"Don't take such temper, Feddie," Dollu advised as she untied his apron for him. "Cook gave you ease on that."

"I've taken raps for less," the blue woman assured him, unwrapping the cloths around her hands and discarding them into a waiting basket.

"Well, I have given raps for much less," Chekov informed her, as he angrily stripped the cloths off his hands and tossed them after hers with a vigor he thought would be better employed on a certain low-caste cook.

"Aye." The dwarf laughed at him. "All good that's give you."

The two women giggled at this, and although Chekov couldn't smile about it, he did have to admit to himself that today his fate did seem to be a particularly good argument for non-violence. 

He followed them to the table. After some maneuvering on the part of his escorts he ended up seated on the low bench on one side of the table with Dollu on his right and the dwarf on his left. Although she made a good effort, the blue woman was too shy to sit next to him in the end.

Deep dish-like pie pans made of crockery were passed down the table. The one that finally ended up in front of Chekov was filled with an identical variety of sizzling, steaming, unrecognizable food to the plates on either side of him. None of it bore any resemblance to anything he'd ever eaten in the dining hall. The kiani's diet was largely vegetarian, consisting largely of fruits, grain breads and moderate amounts of fermented milks that varied in form from rock-hard cheeses to rancidly sour yogurts. A few animal species showed up on the menu as much for visual interest as nutrition. They ate nothing that looked remotely like any of this.

"What is this stuff?" he asked Dollu warily.

"Peppered krivat," she answered, pointing it out with her eating stick and giving him a Kibree name that told him nothing. "Pickled nuts, schoor — that gives a hot mouth, pale sauce, sharp sauce, sweet sauce."

"Oh." He watched her dig into her own portion with gusto. She ate by stabbing one of the yellowish things with her utensil and dunking it in the greenish goop and popping it quickly into her mouth. Chekov picked up his own stick and moved it experimentally through the lumpy mixture. Whatever was in the sauce raised its head and stared at him.

"What's that," he demanded, pulling quickly away.

"Vegetables," the Kibree woman answered calmly.

A small child shouldered between Chekov and the dwarf and stole a fist of something from the smaller man's plate.

The dwarf made to go after the child but Chekov stopped him. "No, no. Here, have mine."

The dwarf grunted and speared some of the lively elements off Chekov's plate. "What do you want?" he asked suspiciously as if Chekov was going to demand something in return.

What Chekov wanted was a roast beef sandwich, a cold glass of vodka, a shower and his cabin back on the _Enterprise_. "Is there any bread?" he asked instead.

The dwarf grunted, speared a few more delicacies and went back to his eating.

Chekov had just gotten up enough nerve to taste one of the yellow things when a fight broke out somewhere at the head of the table. There were over thirty people eating at this time so it was very hard to tell what had happened. The dwarf and several others rushed to join in the fray. Dollu and her friend didn't even look up.

Chekov decided to exercise his new philosophy of non-violence and concentrate on his eating. Once in his mouth the yellow thing had the consistency of a marshmallow and a taste somewhat like liver. After he dipped it in one of the sauces it tasted like liver dipped in mashed peas.

The dwarf returned with booty. "Bread," he said triumphantly, splitting the half-eaten loaf with Chekov. It looked like something salvaged from the kianis' lunch and its recent liberation had clearly involved a trip to the floor.

"Thank you," Chekov said, tearing off part of the crust that had someone's footprint on it. Almost as soon as he'd put the discarded piece aside it was speared away. He turned to see it disappear inside Dollu's mouth. Chivalrously, he subdivided his portion and handed some to her. He then tore off a bit and handed it to the blue woman. He reached across Dollu to do this, thinking that passing food might be too delicate a concept for slag hall manners.

They both seemed to find this very charming, smiling and giggling as much as they could while vigorously stuffing their faces.

There wasn't nearly as much food left in his bowl as Chekov remembered when he turned back to it. There was a however a group of three children munching happily behind him and a respectable pile left on the dwarf's plate. Chekov shrugged. The stale bread with a little sauce on it was about all he could stand anyway.

A renewed clatter of dishes signaled the end of the meal, as the slaves began to gather up empty dishes for cleaning.

"Done?" Dollu asked, offering with a gesture to take Chekov's plate away for him.

His mouth full of bread, Chekov nodded.

The dwarf pushed his plate away and swung his legs over the bench to sit astride it. From out of a pocket in his robe, he pulled an oddly shaped clay pipe.

As if on cue, the tall dark-skinned man Chekov had encountered upon entering the hall approached with a lighted taper.

"Still taking sight of Feddie, hey, Mras?" the tall man said, sitting down comfortably on his heels on the floor beside the table.

Chekov turned around to sit facing him as the dwarf solemnly nodded and lit his pipe. A most malodorous cloud of smoke immediately issued forth. As Chekov almost choked on it, the dwarf offered him a puff.

"Feddie's too wee for pipe," the dark man said, laughing. "Give him chew."

The dwarf grunted and passed his pipe to his companion. From out of the front of his robe he pulled a handful of black, tarry lumps the size of thumbnails. He rubbed the dust off one and offered it to Chekov. "Will give aid to stomach," he encouraged him in a voice much huskier than it had been before he'd taken his pipe. "Don't give swallow though. Take chew."

One of the children pushed in and held its mouth open, silently begging for one of the black lumps. When the dwarf popped one in without giving the matter a second thought, Chekov began to believe whatever these things were they couldn't be harmful in any way. He accepted a lump and put it carefully in his mouth, biting down on it hard just in case it might be prone to retaliate. His mouth went numb.

The dark man laughed and took one himself. "Take ease, Feddie. Take ease."

Although Chekov made no conscious effort to do so, taking ease seemed to take over him. The noise of the room receded. The aching muscles of his neck, shoulders and back loosened comfortably. The whole benighted world of Kibria seemed to slow to a manageable pace. He was suddenly quite content to sit there on the low bench beside the dwarf and his stinking pipe looking at his hands dangling between his knees, unconcerned even by the fact that Lieutenant Sulu's name was written upside down on one of them.

He had no idea how long he remained that way before a rudely familiar voice bawled out, "Property of Sulu, report to me immediately!"

The dwarf slapped at his shoulder as the summons was repeated. "Give answer, Feddie."

"Yes, that's me," Chekov answered, not knowing to whom. It was very difficult to pull himself out of his sudden lethargy. "That's me."

"Has something gone wrong with your hearing, slave?" someone boomed out at brutal volume.

Chekov looked up to find his old acquaintance Gebain looming over him. "Oh, God," he said in Standard. "Is it you again already?"

"Yes," the major domo replied in Kibree, as he lifted Chekov to his feet by his shirtfront. "It's me. You remember me, don't you?"

"Yes, sir," Chekov said, as the larger man spun him around by the shoulders and gave him a push in the direction of the door. 

"Step lively."

"Take ease, brother Chekov," the dwarf wished him as he took off in the direction of the door at as brisk a pace as he could manage.

"Take ease," Chekov repeated as he exited, simply because he'd learned to love the phrase.

"To your rrrRight!" the Kibree behind him bellowed as they passed through the opened black door.

Chekov pleasantly discovered he could feel relaxed even as he quickly moved to an unknown destination.

"To your lllLeft!"

The clinking noises of the dining room could be heard from this corridor.

"Come toooo a HALT!" The major domo crossed in front of him, opened a blue door and pulled him through by taking a hold on his upper arm. They entered an antechamber connected to the main dining room. It was a long room with a table running down one wall. At one end, servants brought trays of food and drink from the kitchens and at the other servants brought empty trays from the dining room.

"You're wet!" Gebain exclaimed, hastily removing his hand from contact with Chekov's still sweaty tunic. "What have you been doing?"

"I was scanned a stirrer," Chekov explained, although polysyllabic responses were getting to be a little too strenuous for him.

The major domo gave him a sharp rap on the top of his head. "Don't let me hear that kitchen slang coming out of your mouth," he warned, then began to search for something to wipe his hands on. "Take off that shirt."

Chekov obeyed him without pausing to think. The major domo took his tunic between two fingers and carefully discarded it with the soiled linen. He sprinkled liquid from one of the glasses from an earlier course onto an unused looking napkin. Chekov stood unresisting and uncaring while Gebain gave him a brisk wiping off with the dampened towel. The major domo took a red serving robe off a nearby hook. "Put this on."

It was predictably far too large since Chekov was significantly smaller than the average Kibree. Gebain whisked the robe back off and took down another which looked to be a child's size. This garment was too short but fitted well in the upper body. Looking down while Gebain tied the high neckpiece in place, Chekov decided that his Starfleet boots looked very nice peeking out the bottom of his borrowed robe.

"You'll stand behind your master and see to his needs," Gebain instructed him. "Since you're going that way, you can take these."

"Of course." Chekov stifled a yawn and obligingly accepted a tray of tall goblets filled with fizzing cold drinks. Each one was constructed out of a multi-chambered mollusk shell mounted on a silver stem.

"Of course," the major domo mimicked him, giving him a push towards the dining room door. "And don't go sampling any of it!"

Chekov hadn't thought of that. He was captivated by the unlikeliness of anything as clean and elegant as this tray-full of sherbets emerging from the steamy sewer of a kitchen he'd just left behind.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

The dining room was more beautiful than he'd remembered. It seemed very light, airy and clean to him. The kianis' conversation and the gentle clinking of their finely made eating utensils was almost musical. The dusk hours had now begun and lighted tapers augmented the misty light coming in the room's windows. Chekov scanned the room for Sulu. He reflected that the lieutenant couldn't be very hard to find since he and the other _Enterprise_ officers were sure to be the only other Feddies in the room. The only problem was that his vision had narrowed down to an uncomplicated tunnel.

A nearby servant noticed his difficulty and discreetly left his post. He turned Chekov in the right direction and gave him a helpful shove.

Sulu and the others were seated facing away from him. One of the kianis seated nearby looked over at him, or perhaps more accurately, at his tray, and gestured him over. As Chekov drew near, he saw that this kiani was Uyal, the engineer they'd run into in the kideok. Since Uyal had seen him sold, he wasn't at all surprised to see Chekov in a servant's uniform. Chekov wasn't feeling very surprised or upset about anything himself at that moment.

"…could increase our transfer efficiency immeasurably," the kiani said continuing his conversation with his neighbor after receiving a sherbet and gesturing Chekov on without comment.

Obeying the kiani's unspoken command, Chekov began setting one of the delicate containers by each diner. Both Sulu and Johnson, the meteorologist, didn't seem to be aware of his presence. Only Angharad Davies, the computer specialist, noticed that the hand placing this particular confection on the table was white and had a very familiar signature on it. "Chekov?"

"Yes, sir?" Davies was only an ensign like himself, but it seemed a lot safer and simpler to Chekov just to call everyone 'sir' for the time being.

Sulu and Johnson's heads jerked around as if they were pulled by the same string. "Where have you been?" Sulu demanded as a mother would of a lost child.

Chekov paused. It was a great effort to think of an answer other than 'Yes, sir'. "In the kitchen."

Sulu took a quick check to see if they were drawing undue attention. As the mealtime had drawn nearer, Sulu had become increasingly anxious about this first public encounter between Chekov and his shipmates. Now that the time had arrived, however, all three ensigns seemed perfectly relaxed, yet he himself was nearly jumping out of his skin on Chekov's appearance. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, sir," Chekov answered, pleased to repeat what was rapidly becoming his favorite reply.

One of the kianis further down the table tapped his glass and gestured for Chekov's tray. "Over here."

"Yes, sir," Chekov repeated for the sheer joy of getting to say it again.

Sulu immediately knew that something was very wrong as he watched the ensign continue down the table unobtrusively delivering sherbets. This was not the joking 'Yes, gracious Master' act Chekov had been pulling earlier. Not was it Chekov being co-operative because he had been asked to be so. Missing was the ironically dramatic flair the ensign always added on such occasions to let you know that he didn't particularly like being compelled to be co-operative. There was something about the unnaturally calm look on the young man's face that made the hairs on the back of Sulu's neck stand straight up.

"Is there something the matter with him, Lieutenant?" Johnson asked softly. "He seems… kind of…"

"…Stoned," Davies finished, then hastily added, "Not that I would know anything about that sort of thing."

"To the gills," Sulu agreed. "Not that I'd know anything about that either."

"Is there something wrong?" Uyal asked.

"I'm not sure," Sulu said, as he watched Chekov unconcernedly deliver confections to the kianis on the other side of the table as if his shipmates had ceased to exist.

"Hmmm." The kiani followed Sulu's line of sight to his property. "You, come here."

There was a half-second delay before Chekov realized he might be the 'you' being addressed. "What?" he asked, looking for the person giving the summons.

"Good servants don't say 'what', Chekov," Uyal explained in the smarmy tones kianis frequently adopted when speaking to the lower castes. "They say, 'Yes, sir.'"

"Yes, sir," Chekov corrected himself, with nauseating readiness. That cinched it for Sulu. This was no act. He'd seen the ensign take on men twice his size for lesser offences. Gone was even the small rebellious tightening of the corners of his mouth that all Chekov's time in Starfleet had not yet taught him to repress. Somehow, someone had gotten to the ensign and done something to him that made him want to be truly docile and co-operative.

"I think I know what our problem is," Uyal assured Sulu as he transferred Chekov's tray to another servant and drew the ensign in close to the table with a bony hand. When the kiani held a candle closer to Chekov's face, Sulu could see that the pupils of the young man's brown eyes were so dilated his eyes looked almost black. "I see he's discovered peeva."

"Peeva?" Sulu repeated, as Chekov blinked and tried to shy away from a brightness that had to be painful.

"It's a drug the servants use," the kiani next to Uyal explained. "We've tried to discourage it by making it illegal, but what does legality mean to them? They smuggle it in, or grow it themselves. It's gotten quite out of control."

"Actually," Uyal confided, "it's quite useful."

"Oh, yes," his friend agreed. "You'll find it makes him quite compliant when you want to have sex with him."

"I don't want to have sex with him," Sulu objected, rather more angrily than he'd intended, into a room whose ambient noise level he suddenly discovered he'd misjudged.

"Well, that takes care of that rumor," Davies said as the kianis went back to their conversations with renewed vigor.

For some reason Chekov was looking confused and somewhat hurt — which did nothing to help Sulu regain his composure.

"Come here, Chekov." It made him feel more than a little queasy to see how happy the ensign seemed to be to obey him. Other than bloodshot, dilated eyes, there were no signs of physical distress. Carefully controlling his temper, he turned back to the kianis. "Is this drug dangerous? Addictive?"

Uyal shrugged diffidently. "I've never heard of any of them dying of it and I've no idea if it's addictive."

"It just deadens things a little for them," the other kiani explained. "They have such dreadful lives, you can't exactly blame them."

The three _Enterprise_ officers looked at two members of the class they clearly felt they could blame for this state of affairs.

"Why would Chekov take it?" Johnson wondered aloud as if Chekov wasn't standing inches away.

"Perhaps it was given to him," the kiani said, beginning to lose interest and toy with his sherbet. "Someone may have wished to curb his natural aggressiveness."

The thought struck Sulu forcibly that if Chekov had been drugged, it might not be the first time that had occurred today. "How long before he comes out of it?" he asked, seeing his schedule slipping further and further behind.

"I don't know," Uyal answered, then laughed. "Some of them are always like that."

"Oh, there's really nothing to it," the other kiani said, as Sulu's opinion of Uyal dropped to a new low. "Three spoonfuls of kvurr in a cup of water, a cold bath and about half an hour of sleep will bring him around fairly well."

Sulu's apprehensions eased somewhat. If the effects could be overcome with what sounded like a simple hangover cure, then the drug couldn't be all that bad.

"If you're going to need him tonight, I could go take care of him now," the kiani offered. "I'm sure I could have him back on his feet by the time you three close down in the control room."

Sulu frowned at Chekov who seemed to be asleep on his feet with his eyes still open.

"No, thank you, but I think I'd better deal with this myself. Where can I…"

He stopped. Everyone seemed to be looking at him with a mixture of astonishment and disapproval. 

"Perhaps I'm mistaken," Uyal said, "but aren't you scheduled to meet with the Director after the meal? It would be… unusual, to keep her waiting while you dealt with a problem involving a servant." 

Sulu nodded carefully. He hadn't really bothered too much about mastering the etiquette of slave owning, not expecting to need to use it. He glanced at Johnson and Davies. Despite Johnson's optimism earlier, neither could really afford to lose time baby sitting. Still, he'd made the kiani aware of his disquiet over Kahsheel's earlier behavior. Much as he hated to leave the ensign in the care of the Kibree, that looked like the best option available to him. The kiani who was offering to assist was one of the junior engineers, a youngster who always seemed to go out of his way to be helpful to the Federation visitors, or anyone else.

"All right," Sulu relented reluctantly. "I would appreciate it a great deal if you would do so. Here is the key to his room. Please leave him there. I'll come and check on him as soon as I can get away. Is that all right with you?"

"Of course." The kiani smiled at Sulu's caution as he accepted the key. "I remember when I had my first slave," he commented dryly to Uyal as he rose and took Chekov by the shoulders. "Don't worry, Mister Sulu. He'll be safe with me."

Chekov felt a fleeting moment of sadness at leaving his friends, but turned and obeyed the tap on his back that told him to start moving for the door.

"I assume you know the way back to your own quarters?" the kiani asked as they exited the dining room.

"Yes, sir."

"Good," the kiani said lazily. "I hate giving directions."

They hadn't gone far before they were stopped by a soft, feminine voice. "Where are you going with him?"

"Halt, slave," the kiani ordered, then turned to the woman. "Taking him to quarters for Sulu. Too much peeva too soon, apparently."

They both laughed knowingly. "I'll take him," the woman offered.

The kiani looked at her dubiously. "Sulu wants him sobered up, Kahsheel."

"Of course," she said innocently, holding out her hand for the key.

"Of course." The kiani smirked as he gave her the key. "Isn't it a strange coincidence that the Federation officer that you found attractive should be the same one who suddenly becomes a slave?"

"Absolutely remarkable," she replied. "Move on, slave."

It didn't really register on Chekov that he'd changed hands until they came to a branch in the corridor and the voice told him to go right when he knew he should be going left.

"We're not going to your quarters," the voice explained when he hesitated. "We're going to mine."

It made little difference to him, even then. He walked on as directed, eventually coming to a halt before a specific door.

"Very good." The woman touched him on the shoulder as she stepped past him to open it. "I see you've learned a great deal since I last saw you."

"Yes, sir," Chekov replied, following her in.

She smiled as she led him through a large reception room. "'Ma'am' would be a little more appropriate. Nard, bring me a jug of hot water. Then I don't wish to be disturbed, unless the visitor I warned you about arrives."

She guided Chekov through another door into a study. "Here we are."

"Yes, ma'am," he agreed contentedly. 

She crossed to a shelf and took down a small jar, then pulled the chair out from her workstation and turned it out for him as she passed. "Sit there," she instructed him, carrying the jar over to a table by the window. She measured a portion out into a cup then filled the cup with liquid poured from a carafe brought in by a servant whom Chekov hardly registered. "So," she said, stirring the mixture, "you've decided you like being a slave?"

"Yes, ma'am," Chekov, who would have pleasantly agreed to being fed his own liver at this point, replied.

"I didn't think you would…" Kahsheel couldn't help smiling as she crossed to him with the mixture. "… the way you like to ask questions all the time. People don't let slaves ask a lot of questions, do they?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Here, drink this." She held the cup out. When he obediently reached for it, she pulled it slightly away from his grasp. "No 'Vat ees eet?' for me first?" she teased, mimicking him in Standard. "You are learning. Here, drink it all."

The liquid, as it entered Chekov's mouth, seemed to turn incredibly bitter.

"Drink it all," Kahsheel insisted, gently pushing the cup back toward his mouth when he tried to lower it.

After he'd drained it, Chekov began to decide that it wasn't the drink's taste but the way it was making him feel that was so bitter. Suddenly pain returned to his world. His head hurt, his eyes hurt and his back was killing him.

"It will make you feel more like yourself." Kahsheel took the cup from him and watched as he rubbed his eyes.

It felt like there was a hive of bees in his head and needles pricking him all over.

"Look at me." She lifted his chin. He didn't resist but squinted at her unhappily. "You probably feel tired, don't you?"

Chekov didn't contradict her, but he knew that what he felt was violently and unpleasantly stimulated by an alien drug. Looking around, it occurred to him that he was in a place where he didn't particularly want to be. "Why am I here?"

"See?" The kiani smiled. "You're sounding more like yourself already."

He tried to rise. "I…"

She gently pushed him back down by the shoulder. "Don't try to get up. You'll be very dizzy for several minutes. Close your eyes and try to relax while the kvurr goes to work. You'll be back to normal very soon, so don't worry. You're perfectly safe here. You'd probably like to take a bath, wouldn't you?"

Chekov didn't want to close his eyes, but it hurt to leave them open. "I…"

"Shhh. Don't try to talk yet. You're too tired. I'll have my servants run you a bath. In the meantime, just relax and don't worry. You're going to be perfectly fine."

Chekov wasn't at all sure that he believed her, but it was so much easier to sit there with his eyes closed and let himself drift away while the alien drug did its disagreeable work.

"In just a few minutes, you'll feel fine." The kiani's voice was soft and warm. "Just sit back, relax and wait for the kvurr to work. You can even go to sleep if you want."

Kahsheel snapped her fingers and Chekov's head dropped slowly forward until it rested on his chest.

"Oh, you really wanted to go to sleep, didn't you? Well, that's very, very good. Just relax, listen to me, and don't worry about anything," the kiani said reassuringly as she turned his chair back around to face the computer workstation. "Now, I want you to imagine that you're not on Kibria any more. You've left Kibria and are back on your ship. You'd like that, wouldn't you? I imagine that after today, you'd like that very much. Well, you're back on your ship now and very happy to be there." She activated her computer and called up a program. "You're going to take a test now — a test to determine whether or not you move up in rank. Concentrate only on this test. You're not on Kibria any more so ignore anything that you hear spoken in Kibree. It is not important. You won't hear it or remember it. Concentrate only on the test. If there are any questions that you don't know the answer to or don't want to give the answer to, skip them, forget they are there. Just concentrate on giving the answers you know. When you've finished, you will relax and go back to sleep knowing that you've done very well. When I snap my fingers, open your eyes and take the test."

Chekov heard a snap and opened his eyes. Surveying the questions on the computer screen, he decided the lieutenant's exam was very easy this time. The questions were mainly about the scientific basis of things like transporters, warp drive and computer technology.

There was a soft knock on the door. In accordance with Kahsheel's instructions, Chekov ignored both it and the man who entered a moment later. If he'd looked, he would have recognized him as Driant, the kiani who'd been at the center of the disturbance at the marketplace.

"He seems to have a lot of knowledge for a junior officer," the Kibree said, watching Chekov work.

Kahsheel shrugged. "It's commonplace knowledge for them. They'd have no qualms about sharing it with us if their laws of non-interference didn't prevent them."

"And now, we will have access to their technology without having to join their little Federation." Driant beamed. "You're a true patriot, Kahsheel."

The kiani shook her head. "No congratulations yet. I didn't get very much out of him the first time. If the question is about something that has obvious military implications he becomes very agitated and won't answer. If he doesn't know the answer he makes up something ridiculous."

Driant watched as Chekov paused briefly then resumed answering with all his former speed. "Well, you've taken care of that this time."

"I hope so. I didn't expect the work crew so soon last time and was rushed."

"Datvin has a mind of his own. We informed you as soon as we could."

"I don't blame you. I lost my composure and did a sloppy job. From what's been overheard in the control room, he remembers being drugged and has a twenty minute gap in his memory he can't explain."

"Is that how you do this to him? Drugs?"

"No, the peeva is just to disorient him, break his resistance a little. It makes him too complaisant, unable to access the knowledge we want. That's why I had to give him a little kvurr before I started. What I'm using is zhavis — a technique of relaxation and suggestion. I can't make him do things against his will, like I could using peeva, but if we're clever enough zhavis will give us access to everything we want to know from him and leave no traces for their medical scanners to pick up."

"Just a great deal of peeva and kvurr."

She shrugged. "Such are the hazards of being an attractive but unruly servant in a large installation such as this one."

His task completed, Chekov's hands dropped limply to his sides and his head lolled forward. Kahsheel crossed to him.

"Very good," she said in Standard as she turned his chair back around. "You've done excellently. You should feel very pleased with yourself."

Chekov smiled in his sleep as she saved the file and deactivated the terminal.

"You've returned to Kibria now. You are in my room and I am taking very good care of you. Do you know why I am taking care of you? It's because I like you. Yes, I like you very much. I find you quite attractive. And you feel the same way about me, don't you? Oh, yes, that's true, isn't it? You find me very attractive, don't you?"

Chekov made a noise that sounded like a chuckle.

Kahsheel smiled. "I know you do. You find me very attractive. You're beginning to fall in love with me, aren't you? I'm falling in love with you. In fact we are so much in love with each other that you long to be near me. In future you are going to try to be with me at every possible opportunity. You love me and trust me implicitly. You know that because I love you I would never do anything to harm you."

While Chekov smiled in his sleep, the kiani turned around and pointed Driant to the door. "Leave now."

"Why?" he mouthed back silently, fearing to be heard by the sleeping but at the same time not sleeping Chekov.

"We can't give him another twenty minute memory lapse to worry about, now can we?" She smiled as she caressed Chekov's face. "So I'd like a little peace and quiet while this alien and I make a few memories."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kasheel causes more problems. Chekov has a great deal of trouble getting through breakfast.

When Sulu opened the door to his quarters, he was met by Station Manager Datvin holding Chekov by his right wrist.

"I believe this is yours," the kiani said, displaying Sulu's signature on the ensign's hand, as if the Kibree was a disgruntled neighbor presenting the lieutenant with the baseball that had just flown through his window. "He was found in the halls unaccompanied, with this."

Sulu examined his human property anxiously as Datvin accusingly held up a room key. Gone was the automaton from the dining room. Back in its place was the old Chekov, who smiled and shrugged from behind the kiani as if his having been briefly turned into a zombie and gone missing for over two hours had been just a lark.

"I'm sorry, Datvin," Sulu apologized, torn between relief that his fellow officer seemed to be safe and the urge to reach out and strangle the ensign. "I left strict instructions that he was to be returned to his room, but there seems to have been a mix-up. No one I asked seemed to know where he was."

Datvin looked down his nose at both master and servant before he grudgingly returned the key. "You're simply going to have to be more careful. I don't want there to be any incidents."

"Oh, yes, of course." Sulu motioned Chekov inside. "I'll see to it. Goodnight, and thank you."

The station manager looked as though there was a great deal more he'd like to have said if he wasn't restrained by his kiani politeness. "Good evening, Mister Sulu."

"And where the hell have you been?" Sulu asked as he closed the door. "I was beginning to think I'd have to launch a major manhunt."

"Sobering up." Chekov plopped down in a comfortable chair. "Could I have a drink?"

Sulu folded his arms, feeling like the parent of an adolescent child. "Could I have an explanation of where you've been for the past two and a half hours?"

An irrepressible smile broke over Chekov's face. "Kahsheel does like me after all," he confessed. "She likes me very much."

"What does Kahsheel have to do with this?"

"She helped me overcome the effects of the drug. She gave me something to drink — a stimulant of some sort — and…"

"And what?" Sulu asked when Chekov let his sentence trail off.

Chekov smiled and shrugged.

"…And you had sex with her?" Sulu asked disbelievingly following direction the trail seemed to be taking.

"A gentleman wouldn't say such a thing," the ensign demurred.

"And only an idiot would do such a thing."

"My resistance was still very low," Chekov pointed out, defending his and the kiani's honor. "She said it would be therapeutic and it did certainly seem to help."

Sulu shook his head grimly and wondered how long he could feasibly lock Chekov in a closet. "She drugged you earlier this afternoon too, didn't she?"

"Yes, she admitted to that. She had intended to… to do what she did this time, but since I had no tolerance for the drug, I fell asleep. While I was sleeping, there was a call to say the workmen were on their way. She administered the antidote then told me I'd fainted."

"Why did she lie?"

"She didn't mean any harm. She was just embarrassed. Even the kiani can be embarrassed."

Sulu wasn't sure if he bought that. "And you don't mind what she did to you this time?"

"I know I should. But it's a different culture with different views on such things. I know she didn't mean any harm. And I must admit she is a very attractive woman, and I suppose I was flattered that she…" Sulu thought he could detect a blush creeping up Chekov's cheeks. "I… uh, was a fairly willing participant the second time."

"The second time?" Sulu repeated incredulously. "Pavel, I've noticed your strange attraction to domineering women before, but this takes the cake, even for you."

"There was that proverb you quoted earlier about the different strokes," Chekov reminded him playfully, then leaned back in the chair. "I wonder if she'll be at the moonrise break tonight?"

Several of the kiani they worked with gathered informally most nights for refreshments in a certain courtyard with a southern exposure to observe the rising of their second moon.

"She might be," Sulu said, crossing to the table by his bed and picking up the medical scanner, "but you won't. You'll be right here doing the atmospheric plenum flow equations that I planned for you to start doing over two hours ago and that we've got to have before tomorrow morning."

"Slavedriver," Chekov accused him jokingly. "Could I at least have a little tiny glass of vodka before I start? I have had a most difficult day."

"Let me get some readings first." Sulu ran the medical scanner he'd retrieved from Johnson's experiment over him. "We still don't have any idea what this drug they use could be doing to your system."

"Speaking of tomorrow morning," Chekov said, as Sulu made a second pass then clicked off the scanner and waited for the unit to give him an analysis readout. "You will need to wake me up. There is no longer an alarm in my quarters and I have a very pressing appointment with Mister Gebain at five minutes before planet dawn."

"Sure," Sulu said, remembering what sort of day Chekov had had today and was probably going to have tomorrow. "I never got to ask you, but how did that go?"

Chekov put his feet up. "How did what go?"

"You know… How did you get along with the other… I mean, how did you get along while you were in… You know…"

Mister Sulu seemed to be suffering from an acute case of liberal bourgeois guilt this evening.

"In slag hall?" Chekov asked mischievously, seeing if he could make it any worse. "Well, I did have the initial misfortune of being scanned a stirrer, but that gave me occasion to take speech with two morts who found me quite lookly for a Feddie."

Chekov watched as Sulu's superior knowledge of the language failed him completely. "And that's good?" the lieutenant asked hopefully.

Chekov shrugged. "Relatively speaking, yes."

The medikit chirped as it presented its conclusions. Sulu's face reflected annoyance as he read them.

"What is it?" Chekov asked, thinking he surely had already filled his quota for disasters for that day.

"Whoever prepped this tricorder for us filled the memory up with public health data, not the intergalactic pharmacopoeia. It doesn't recognize whatever it is you've been taking. Readings indicate that the substance is related to various undesirable compounds, and it says you should only continue taking it under medical supervision."

"Is it harmful?" Chekov asked reaching out impatiently for the tricorder to see if the screen was flashing a skull and cross bones that Sulu wasn't telling him about.

"From these readings I'd say there's a good chance that this drug is harmful and possibly addictive." Sulu handed him the instrument. "It robs you of your judgement and even the basic intelligence you normally possess. I don't want you to take any more of it, understood?"

Chekov nodded grimly at the readings. "Definitely."

"I'll speak to Kahsheel about giving you any more."

"I will speak to her," Chekov offered cheerfully.

"No," Sulu contradicted firmly. "I will speak to her."

"If you wish," Chekov replied, his expression far less acquiescent than his answer. "However, I will be speaking with her again… sooner or later."

Sulu didn't like this. He and Chekov were not simply fellow officers. They were friends. And friends who wanted to stay friends didn't give friends orders about who they were and were not to sleep with. "Perhaps you shouldn't," he said, holding his ground.

"Perhaps I shouldn't," the ensign conceded, returning the tricorder and crossing his arms. "But I probably will."

Sulu could see from the set of Chekov's mouth that if this debate continued on an officer-to-junior-officer basis it was going to get very ugly very fast. "Well," he said, attempting to switch to a friend-to-friend footing, "I know I wouldn't."

The ploy worked well enough to make Chekov smile. "And you would probably be right. However, I know that she doesn't mean me any harm. And since she and I have… come to an understanding, there is no longer any motivation to drug me."

The lieutenant had to concede that that much certainly seemed to be true. There were still questions he wanted to ask, precautions he felt he should urge on the ensign, but staying on relatively good terms with each other was also going to be important in this situation. He decided to make that a priority for the moment. "You said you wanted a drink?" he asked, packing away the scanner.

"Desperately."

"If you're supposed to be the servant," Sulu observed as he crossed to the dispenser and punched in an order for a vodka for the ensign and a glass of water for himself, "then why am I always opening doors for you, waking you up and getting you things?"

"Trade secret." Chekov winked as he accepted the glass. "To a better day tomorrow."

" _Nazdrovia_ ," Sulu replied in the only Russian he knew.

Chekov winced. "What a terrible accent."

"I hate to bring this up," Sulu said, activating his computer terminal. "But there are some plenum flow equations that have been waiting for you."

"Oh, yes." Chekov drained his glass and sat down in front of the terminal.

Sulu caught himself yawning as he stepped back and watched the ensign settle into his task. With the crisis of the missing junior officer resolved, his brain suddenly seemed to be drifting towards sleep mode. It was almost impossible to adapt to the long Kibrian days. Treating them as two short days with an extended midday siesta that fitted naturally into the natives' avoidance of the hottest hours of daylight, worked only so well. Today the excitement in the kideok had pushed the siesta out of the way. Added to that, the extra strain of worrying about Chekov had left the lieutenant feeling utterly drained.

"Look, I'm going to take an hour or so to catch some sleep."

"Fine." Chekov barely looked up from the computer screen. 

Sulu paused guiltily. "You could rest awhile too before you start on those… if you're tired."

"No." 

Sulu dimmed the lights in the sleeping area and pulled off his Kibrian boots. As he lay on the bed, he wondered what had happened to Chekov's uniform top. Presumably that too was in the hands of some collector of curios. The fascination these people felt for what was to him merely bread-and-butter equipment, was, he supposed, as understandable as their eagerness on a different level to get their hands on Federation technology. The very tasks his team were here to carry out were taking far longer than necessary because they were forced to use local equipment. If they could have…

The alarm went off with all the subtlety of a love struck peacock. Someone, presumably Chekov, had closed the shutters over the high, arched windows. The room was lit only by the narrow blades of pale moonlight cutting through the slats of wood. Sulu rubbed his eyes and stretched. He couldn't remember taking Chekov back to his room last night but there was no sign of him anywhere in here. Presumably he'd gone on his own. The lieutenant could only hope no one had caught him. They would have to be a lot more careful about that kind of thing.

Then he heard running water in the bathroom and noticed a small nest of bedding under the window. "Chekov, is that you?"

"Who else were you expecting?" the ensign's muffled voice asked.

"I wasn't expecting anyone," Sulu replied as he pulled on his ersatz boots.

"Well, considering yesterday's events, I thought it might be prudent for me to sleep inside a room with an electronic lock on the door."

Sulu nodded, recognizing that this was a major concession on his friend's part since the most likely candidate to break into the ensign's quarters was his friend Kahsheel. "You didn't have to sleep on the floor." 

"I didn't." Chekov emerged from the bathroom drying his hair with a hand towel. There was a larger towel wrapped around his waist. "It got very cold very fast. In the end I got into bed with you. Don't tell anyone, though. It would simply ruin my reputation."

Sulu marveled at his friend's ability to wake up in a such a good mood. "I think Davies already suspects."

"Do you have an extra uniform tunic?" Chekov asked, picking up his trousers and boots.

"No. I was going to ask what happened to yours."

Chekov scratched his bare shoulder as he puzzled over this for a moment. "I'm not quite sure."

"There were some native garments in the closets in your room, weren't there?" Sulu said, picking up the key to Chekov's quarters off the table by the door.

"I think so."

Sulu took a step outside his quarters only to find a neat pile of brightly colored cloths just outside the door. When he held the material up it turned out to be a long, rust red overshirt and a blousey pair of green trousers. Embroidered into the garments at the shoulders, neck, wrists and ankles were facsimiles of Sulu's initials, clearly indicating that the wearer was a servant of the lieutenant.

"Just my size, I suppose?" Chekov said, crossing his arms.

"Those Kibree…" Sulu handed the garments to him. "…they think of everything

"Yes." Chekov frowned, noting that the clothes had not been left outside his door and having a good idea what the Kibree would think of his spending the night with his 'master'. "A most observant people."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"Su, Feddie, what lookly garb," exclaimed Chekov's green-skinned female acquaintance of the previous day as the big black door to the servant's sub-kitchen closed behind him.

"Thank you, Miss Dollu." If Gebain had been pleased to see the off-world servant delivered promptly on the other side of that door by his master at an hour and thirty five minutes before breakfast, the major domo hadn't let it show. After Sulu rounded the corner heading away from the kitchens, Gebain had treated Chekov to a full ten minute lecture on his less than exemplary behavior at last night's meal. The ensign's ears were still ringing with it.

"Not 'miss'," Dollu corrected him with a laugh as she continued to scrub down the long table. "Sister."

"Oh, I see." Chekov favorably noted slag hall's more democratic mode of address. "Then good morning, sister Dollu."

"Take ease, brother Chekov," she replied approvingly.

Through the doors to the inner kitchens he could see a few people quietly at work, laying out dough on long trays or paring fruit. A soft melody, sung in a couple of contrasting voices, drifted from further apartments out of sight. Breakfast obviously didn't require the same level of frenetic activity that had accompanied the preparations for the evening meal. 

"No stirring today?" he speculated hopefully.

"No stirring?" Dollu broke into laughter. She reached out and affectionately tousled his hair as if he were a child. "Not yet, but you'll give stir before day is out."

Then Dollu's blue-skinned friend approached and greeted him with a shy nod. Not knowing the proper form of address for people with no name, he smiled and returned her gesture. Opening her hands toward her friends, the woman revealed she'd obtained two pieces of peeva to share with them.

Chekov stared at the black, tarry lumps, half expecting to be overcome with an uncontrollable desire to seize and consume them. No such feeling troubled him. It appeared that Sulu was worrying unnecessarily. "No, thank you."

The blue-skinned woman seemed unsurprised by his refusal. She handed one piece to Dollu and popped the extra one into her own mouth. "That Kibbie-eyed Feddie has taken sweet of your sight," she speculated, gesturing at his new clothes.

"No," Chekov corrected firmly, launching into the speech he'd been preparing the entire way over to the kitchens. Some servant had obviously been the one to deliver the garments to Sulu's door. "No, no, no. That is not the situation between Mister Sulu and myself. I was merely working late in his quarters last night and…"

"Did he take temper with you for making dally with the curly red one?" Dollu asked with concern written all over her plain features.

Chekov blinked in open mouthed surprise at this obvious reference to his tryst with a certain kiani engineer whose most distinguishing feature was her long, curling, auburn tresses. "Is there no such thing as privacy in this place?"

"Privacy?" Dollu repeated blankly, then looked to her friend for help with this unfamiliar term. "I don't take understanding of 'privacy'."

Chekov folded his arms. "Obviously."

"Brother Chekov." 

The ensign knew from the smell of his pipe and the sound of his gravelly voice that the speaker was the dwarf even before he turned.

"Take ease, brother Mras," he replied, with all the proud caution of a student after one day's acquaintance with a new language. After speaking he remembered that he wasn't supposed to know the dwarf's name. Fortunately, Mras didn't appear to have remembered this. He chuckled at Chekov's greeting and puffed peeva smoke thoughtlessly in his face. The world suddenly flipped inside out. The Russian realized that he wanted the drug very much indeed. The connection between the visual stimulus of the tarry wads and what his body needed hadn't been strong enough to make an impact but inhaling it by the lungful was another matter. 

"Aeyo, Feddie!"

Chekov started guiltily. "Me?"

"How many other Feddies are there in slag hall?" his old friend the low-caste cook asked sarcastically as he approached. "What do you think you are, some kiani who can stand around chattering all day?"

"No, of course not. I was just preparing to…" Chekov looked around, but his friends had abandoned him, busying themselves in other, safer parts of the room. There wasn't even a handy cloth he could pretend he was wiping the table with.

"You're preparing to take a rap in the mouth if you don't shut up," the cook threatened perfunctorily as he turned the ensign towards a door that had been closed the previous evening. It now stood sufficiently ajar to reveal a shadowy stillroom. "Get in there and clean grezat until I tell you to leave off. Dwarfie, you go with him and show him how I like it done."

Chekov followed Mras into the dim room. When his eyes adjusted, he could see racks of shelves loaded with baskets of fruit, soft-hued feathered corpses of small birds, strings of vegetables and coarse woven bags of unknown provisions. He paused to inspect some of the vegetables in passing, but none of them showed any inclination for independent movement.

The dwarf re-lit his pipe before he settled down at a long trestle table. On it a mountain of little birds lay, eyes still bright, tumbled in an unnatural disorder. The maddening smell of peeva filled the air as the dwarf laughed to himself and opened a sack at his feet.

'There's a good chance that this drug is harmful and possibly addictive,' Sulu's voice said inside Chekov's head as the dwarf began to tear the plumage off a jade and yellow bird. "It robs you of your judgement and even the basic intelligence you normally possess. I don't want you to take any more of it, understood?"

Chekov replayed the lieutenant's words over and over again like a mantra as more and more of the little bird's brilliant blue skin became visible beneath the dwarf's deft fingers. He didn't realize he was actually mouthing until he noticed Mras watching him. When the dwarf understandingly offered him the pipe, he took it like a man in a dream.

His experience with inhaling pipe smoke was nil, but desperation overcame the handicap. The tiny mass of shredded resin in the bowl of the pipe glowed almost white.

"Thank you," he spluttered eventually, returning the pipe to its owner.

When a draft of air announced the entrance of someone from the inner kitchen, Mras' pipe disappeared as if by magic. Chekov grabbed a bird and began to blindly pull feathers off it as a cook collected an ingredient off one of the shelves and exited without comment.

"No, Feddie." The dwarf crossed to his side of the table and correctly positioned the bird in his left hand so it could be easily turned. Putting his hand over the ensign's he guided him through the correct technique for efficiently removing the feathers. "Do you take understanding?"

"Oh, yes, I see it now," Chekov assured him.

The dwarf watched him for a moment, then returned to his side of the table. He patted a place at the bench beside him with a friendly smile. "You copped a good one today, Feddie."

From the dwarf's air of self-satisfaction, their assignment seemed an equally fortunate one for him.

"Much cooler than stirring," Chekov agreed, crossing to sit next to him. The bird was so small he had it stripped in just a few moments. Mras took it from him, examined it critically, tidied up a few remaining feathers around the bird's feet, then tossed the carcass into an empty basket.

Much encouraged by this relatively easy success, Chekov selected another bird and started over. The cool feathers were pleasant to the touch. Feathers tumbled down into the sack and over the brick floor. Every so often a draft stirred them as someone came in to collect ingredients for the day's cooking.

Chekov noted that the effect of the peeva was calm and soothing this time and not as pronounced as the high of the previous evening. Under its gentle influence he felt he could sit and tear feathers off small birds until the universe ground to a halt.

Mras began to sing as he worked. It was the same melody Chekov had heard earlier:

"My kiree, my kiree, takes sight of me like small bird…"

After a couple of verses, Chekov couldn't help humming along with the chorus. The sound was curiously soothing. He stopped worrying about the fact that he would shortly have to face Sulu at breakfast, at which point the lieutenant would doubtless realize he was half-cut again.

The squeak of a door caught his attention, and a flood of sunlight forced him to screw up his eyes and turn his face away. Mras put a hand on his shoulder reassuringly and softly said, "Take ease, brother. Give quiet, most quiet."

When he opened his eyes again the room had gone dim. As soon as the after images faded, he could see a smiling Kibree sitting opposite them at the table. "Take ease, Brother Mras."

"Hmm" The dwarf seemed to disapprove of their visitor. 

Chekov looked at the newcomer curiously. He had laid his hands on the table and there was no mark on them, but his clothes had the hand-me-down quality of slag-hall raiment. 

The stranger looked back at him. "My kiree give his servant ease, and give him fine feathers like the little birds." 

That didn't exactly answer Chekov's unspoken question. The Kibree did not appear to be a slave, and yet his clothes could hardly be described as fine. Chekov tossed another naked corpse into the basket and concentrated on selecting his next victim.

"Gives a fine day. And who is this brother?"

"Feddie. Gave a bop to Kiriar Tunnas." Mras said it as one recounting a bold and praiseworthy exploit, but the stranger frowned reproachfully. 

Chekov found he couldn't ignore the intruder, even though he wanted to. And he wasn't even sure why he wanted to so much. The Kibree made him feel guilty and unclean in vague and unspecified ways. Presumably he was of a higher caste, since he wasn't an unqualified supporter of magistrate-battering, but then why was he sitting here in the kitchen with a couple of slaves?

He tried to return to his work but the stranger laid a hand on his, took the bird away from him and folded it into his own long, cinnamon colored hands completely hiding it from view. A moment later he opened his hands again and a live bird, its plumage iridescent and vital, whirred up into the blackness overhead. Chekov stared after it.

The exterior door which had admitted this magician swung open again, and this time a hunchbacked Kibree, piebald with some skin disorder, walleyed, and missing his right hand, slammed it shut behind him. An empty bag hung over his right shoulder. He plucked it off with his remaining hand and laid it down on the table. Mras immediately began to stuff the yet unplucked birds in it. After nearly half of them had disappeared into the sack Mras and the latest arrival proceeded to haggle at a furious pace in quiet whispers. Within seconds, the hunchback was sorting a handful of jewels out of his belt. He made to pass some to the magician but the Kibree only shook his head sorrowfully. The jewels were then split into two unequal portions and Chekov found himself in possession of the smaller. Mras took the other and the new owner of the poultry departed. The dwarf returned to his plucking as if nothing had happened.

"Gives sop!" The call rang out from some slave and the magician rose to his feet. 

"Take ease, brother Mras," he said gravely. "Take ease, brother Chekov."

Chekov was still worrying too much about the bird to wonder how the Kibree had learned his name. A bit of mind reading was nothing compared to raising wild fowl from the dead. Mras seemed to be glad to see the conjurer leave, scowling after him as the door closed. "Give speed, Feddie."

The reason for that last instruction was immediately apparent. The kitchen had filled up in their absence and the two late arrivals were forced to squeeze themselves in where they could at the table. 

Chekov looked at breakfast and wondered why he'd bothered. He also wished he'd had a chance to wash his hands. However clean the feathers seemed, they'd left a thin layer of preening oil on his skin. Since there was nothing to eat with but his fingers, he just pushed the bowl of grains and chopped nuts and vegetables in the direction of the nearest hungry looking child and got up again. 

No one seemed to notice him. The noise was back up to where it had been yesterday. The usual mixture of raucous chattering and energetic quarreling was keeping everyone occupied. 

He found a sluice and bent to wash his hands. Only then did he remember the jewels that he was still absent-mindedly clutching. He stood looking at them for a moment. He seemed to have been drawn into petty theft, and was unsure what to do with his ill-gotten gains. His clothes lacked pockets, perhaps for exactly that reason. After a moment's deliberation he bent down and put them in his boot. One could never tell when it might be useful to have a little currency of your own. It occurred to him that if he needed money, he'd do better to sell his boots than store cash in them. He smiled at the illogic of that. How come Sulu's boots were worth six hundred jewels, and yet he, standing up in identical boots, had been considered overpriced at three hundred?

"What's so funny, Feddie?"

He realized that one of the cooks was watching him suspiciously from across the room. "Nothing, sir."

It would have been prudent for him to immediately rejoin his fellows at the table, but somehow the blue-skinned cook's eyes held him in place as the low-caste crossed towards the sluice carrying a bag. "Don't you want breakfast?"

His peeva-induced light sensitivity made it natural for him to avoid the low-caste's eyes. "No, sir."

The cook reached into his bag, pulled out a half burned flat loaf of bread and held it out to Chekov. When the ensign reached for it gratefully, the Kibree quickly snatched it back. "Stupid Feddie," he laughed as he tossed the loaf into the sluice.

Only the calming influence of the peeva buzzing through his brain prevented Chekov putting his fist through the low-caste's blue face. Instead, he started back to the table, swearing colorfully to himself in Russian.

He'd only gone a few steps when a restraining hand on his collar pulled him up short. "What did you say, Feddie?"

Despite the peeva, he would have translated for the cook, but lacked the vocabulary. "Nothing, sir."

"Oh, no?" The cook spun him around and cocked back a fist. "It didn't sound like nothing to me." 

"Aeyo!" They were interrupted by the voice of the cook who was Chekov's usual tormentor. "What's the problem here?"

The blue-skin jabbed a finger at Chekov's chest. "He was putting a Feddie curse on me!"

"Oh, really?" The cook took a painful grip on the ensign's ear. "Is that so, Feddie?"

Chekov involuntarily rose up on his toes to try to relieve the pressure. "No, sir. I was just saying something… ah… a little uncomplimentary about you."

"There, you see, Bolse, he wasn't trying to curse you." The cook pulled his ear a little higher than before. "He was just saying something uncomplimentary about you."

The other cook was grinning now. "Doesn't he know he's not supposed to do that either?"

"I'm afraid not," the cook said in a tone of patronizing concern. "You see, poor little Feddie here is a newcomer to slag hall. He doesn't know how to act yet. It's up to us to teach him the way a slag mother would teach her little child."

Retaining his crushing grip on the ensign's ear, the low-caste marched Chekov to the wall directly beside the entrance to the kitchens. As the cook made a great show of taking out a piece of wood with one charred end and measuring the level of Chekov's nose against a point on the wall, the other cook and several of the servants recognized what the low-caste was up to and began to laugh. Chekov had been in the kitchens long enough to recognize it too, but didn't find the situation nearly as amusing. As mild punishment for naughty children, adults would sometimes draw a circle on the wall and make the child stand with their nose against it for a time.

"Give quiet, nammie!" the cook said, in a loud falsetto imitation of a slave woman as he pushed Chekov's head towards the wall. "And keep nose from trouble a while!"

The general hilarity provoked by this could have been a tribute to the cook's comic skills… or due to the incongruity of a grown man being subjected to a child's punishment… or an expression of relief when a potentially violent situation became unexpectedly non-violent. Chekov knew however that many of the servants were laughing because of their distrust, hostility and resentment of offworlders in general and of him — the awkward outsider in their midst who still spoke like their masters — in particular.

"Let me see you move an inch, Feddie," the cook threatened genially, giving him a pat on the back, "and I'll show you another use for a stir paddle, understand?"

"Yes, sir," Chekov replied to the wall, while he idly wondered how much he'd be breaking the Prime Directive if he brought a phaser with him the next time he came into the kitchen.

In a few minutes his anger began to dissolve into patient peeva-dulled misery. The discomfort of standing in an awkward position with his nose pressed against the hard wall, the discomfort of being very hungry while he could hear other people loudly enjoying a meal, the discomfort of being periodically giggled at and targeted with tiny missiles designed to provoke him to move, all blurred into one vague general discomfort.

It had all become so vague and general, he was getting used to it by the time the big black door opened and a loud voice boomed, "What are you doing?"

Chekov sighed. "Very, very little."

"Of all the stupid, inept, impertinent…" The major domo grabbed him by the back of the collar and pushed him out the door. "…troublesome, hard-headed and mischief-making servants it has ever been my misfortune to encounter, you are by far the worst. Are you intentionally trying to make yourself a nuisance?"

"No, Mister Gebain." Chekov wiped the soot off his nose as unobtrusively as he could as he headed off on the now-familiar path to the dining room.

"I hardly think you could do a better job of it if you were staying up nights thinking of idiotic things to do… which I half suspect you are. It takes planning to be so brainless. But I must admit that you seem to have an almost unlimited capacity for thoughtless, foolish, reckless, ill-behaved, disobedient, impudent, flippant…"

The trouble with his growing familiarity with the Kibrian language, Chekov reflected as he entered the servants' antechamber to the dining room, was that he was beginning to understand a much greater percentage of Gebain's tirades.

"And just how did this happen?" Gebain asked, indicating the soot streaks remaining on Chekov's face.

"Well, I… I… uh…" Chekov stammered, not sure how the major domo would react to his encounter with the cook.

"You were being punished," Gebain supplied helpfully. "I can see that. I'm asking for what."

"I… uh…" Chekov swiped at his nose guiltily. "I said something slightly uncomplimentary about one of the cooks."

"Oh, is that all?" the major domo asked sarcastically as he grabbed the ensign's hand and scrubbed it roughly with a dampened towel. He then proceeded to give Chekov's face the same treatment. "You're lucky the cook didn't box your ears, or send you to me for a good beating - which I would have been more than happy to give."

Given these alternatives, Chekov did feel relatively fortunate to have gotten off with merely a minor humiliation.

The major domo helped him into a red serving robe. "Apparently someone in the kitchen finds you amusing…" Gebain placed a tray of hot bread in his hands which smelled so delicious it almost made the ensign weep from hunger. "…which I do not. I am quite of the opinion that a good beating would go a long way to teaching you some humility, restraint and forethought."

Chekov bit his lip, shifted the heavy tray uncomfortably and marveled at the Kibree's ability to put the words "good" and "beating" in such close proximity.

"When the time comes," the Kibree continued, " — and given your behavior, I don't think it will be too much longer in coming — that I am called upon to administer punishment to you, know that I have been looking forward to such an occasion and will enjoy it thoroughly."

"Yes, sir," Chekov replied as meekly as possible.

"Well, what are you waiting for?"

"Mister Gebain…" Chekov could see this wasn't exactly an opportune moment to request a favor, but the smell of the bread was twisting his empty stomach into knots. "I didn't get to eat breakfast…"

The major domo put his hands on his hips. "And whose fault was that?"

"Mine, I suppose, however…" Chekov barely got his admission past his lips before the Kibree had turned him around and pushed him through the dining room door.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

The dining room was empty except for red-robed servants. The morning light streaming through the tall windows hurt Chekov's eyes as he carried his tray to the table where the Federation people usually sat. Following the example of the other servants he began distributing the bread to each of the place settings. He felt a gnawing anguish at releasing each aromatic roll. He'd almost worked up the nerve to palm a piece when the first of the kiani began to arrive, along with Angharad Davies.

There was a conspicuous lack of a greeting between them as the computer specialist took a seat. In Sulu's absence it seemed a good idea to be attending to someone so Chekov assumed a position behind her.

Davies turned her head slightly, catching his action in her peripheral vision. "Chekov."

He stepped forward expectantly. "Yes?"

"If you stand behind me no one's going to serve me," she said softly, keeping her eyes safely straight ahead.

"Don't worry," he reassured her, keeping his voice very low, since servants weren't supposed to speak at all in this room. "I will serve you."

"I'm very uncomfortable with this," she said, not lifting her eyes off her plate.

"Don't be silly," he whispered as he took the empty drinking vessel from her place. It was a very delicate thing, seemingly made of lacquered leaves. He filled the glass from one of the pitchers of fruit juice laid out at the end of the table. "I'm not doing anything for you now that I wouldn't be happy to do voluntarily. Here, drink this. It's very good."

"Thanks."

"And try some of this

"Okay." Davies took a deep breath and resolved to play along with his game, hoping that he was right and the two of them could decide for themselves whether or not the situation was embarrassing. "What about that pink fruit?"

"No," Chekov advised softly, providing her with an alternative selection. "I know the man who peeled them. He has a little sinus problem."

"Oh," Davies replied, regretting that she'd eaten pink fruit every morning since arriving. "I'm glad you're feeling better this morning. You were really out of it last night. It was kind of scary."

"Sorry," he apologized, hoping it would prove as easy to avoid eye contact with Sulu. He doubted that the lieutenant was going to have much sympathy for him when he realized that he'd disobeyed orders. Out of the corner of his eye, Chekov caught sight of a kiani he thought was Kahsheel. He realized his mistake, but the resemblance was close enough that it was hard to take his eyes off her. "What is it that makes these alien women so damned attractive?" he asked with a sigh.

"I don't know," Davies said pitilessly, "but I'd guess it's the same thing that makes you so damned stupid."

"Oh?" He put a selection of mixed nuts on her plate. "You think I'm stupid?"

"I can't imagine what would make me think such a thing." Davies smiled ironically. "Oh, by the way, could you peel these grapes for me, slave?"

Chekov straightened and was in the middle of preparing an appropriate reply to Davies' sarcasm when he was stopped by a light touch.

"Ensign Davies, I'm pleased to see you Federation people are adjusting to the situation." Kahsheel was standing right behind him, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders. Chekov's insides flipped, in an indeterminate way, that could just as much mean terror as delight, while ruling out all the more temperate emotions. "He can be quite obliging when he wants to be. Can't you, my dear?"

Chekov felt all the blood in his body rush to his head, making it dreadfully hard to think clearly. "Yes, ma'am." 

Davies watched disapprovingly as the kiani nodded towards a chair across the table as if it was a fold-down king-sized bed just waiting for the two of them. Chekov moved to pull it out for her with what Davies found to be a disgusting lack of hesitation. Johnson entered and sat down next to Davies with a stack of computer printouts almost an inch thick. The meteorologist picked up a roll and sat absently munching it as he turned from page to page. Chekov in the meantime was practically falling over himself seeing to his kiani paramour's needs. Davies tried to keep her attention on her food as they smiled and whispered to each other. 

"I've found a way to get you out of the kitchens at lunch," Kahsheel was saying to him softly. "Would that please you?"

"Very much." Chekov set down a glass of fruit juice in front of her. "However…"

He had to cross to her other side to get out of the way of Uyal, who cleared his throat with mild disapproval as he took the seat next to Kahsheel.

"…I missed breakfast." He selected an attractive array of violet fruits for the kiani.

"Those, please," Kahsheel ordered as she unobtrusively slipped him a piece of bread

"Yes, ma'am." Chekov smoothly transferred the piece to his mouth as he fetched a dried grain mixture for her. "That's not what I mean," he whispered when he bent near her ear. "I mean, I'll need to be in the kitchens to eat lunch."

"Slice this," Kahsheel commanded, giving him another excuse to lean near. "Don't worry, just leave everything to me. When you see someone wearing a blue crest…"

"Mister Chekov." Sulu had arrived, looking very much like someone who had put in a two hour stint in front of a computer before breakfast, and was seated across the table with the other _Enterprise_ personnel.

"Yes, sir." Chekov kept his eyes carefully on the floor as he moved to take his place behind the lieutenant.

Sulu thought nothing of the fact that the ensign failed to look at him while he filled his glass and set an assortment of fruits in front of him. He noticed the problem when he happened to look up in time to see Kahsheel smiling at a point beyond and above his shoulder, and turned to non-verbally caution the smile's recipient about staring at the kiani. It struck him as suspicious that Chekov broke the eye contact by completely closing his eyes. There was also something unpleasantly familiar about the way the ensign had to blink several times before he could open them properly again.

"Chekov," he summoned him quietly.

"Yes, Mister Sulu?"

"Look at me."

The way the ensign bit his lip and stared at Sulu's shoulder was almost confirmation enough. Feeling a hot flash of anger surge through him, Sulu stood up and tilted the ensign's head back to be sure. From this level, the incriminatingly bloodshot whites and enlarged pupils were clearly visible despite the fact that the ensign couldn't seem to get his eyes completely open.

"Did you..?" Sulu asked, a little more loudly and vehemently than he'd intended to. Feeling the eyes of everyone in the dining room on him, the lieutenant cleared his throat and tried to get a hold on his temper. "Come with me, please."

Guilt choked Chekov's reply of "Yes, sir," to near inaudibility.

"Does this have something to do with me, Lieutenant?" Kahsheel asked boldly as they moved away from the table.

"No, ma'am, it doesn't," Sulu said coldly, as he opened a door leading into the corridor and allowed Chekov to precede him. "I just need to have a word with my servant in private."

Several of the kiani laughed at this.

"Nothing you ever say in their hearing ever remains private," someone explained as Sulu closed the dining room door behind him.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Chekov was waiting for him in the corridor. "I know what you're going to say, Mister Sulu, but…"

"No, you don't, mister," Sulu contradicted sharply, "or you wouldn't have done this. I gave you an order — a clear, unambiguous order. I want to know why you disobeyed it."

"I didn't take nearly as much this time…"

"Like that matters," Sulu cut him off abruptly. "Look, I explained to you and you agreed…"

The dining room door opened and Kahsheel entered with a defiant toss of her head. "I think this has a good deal to do with me," she said, taking a stand beside Chekov.

"Well, now that you mention it, lady," Sulu said, feeling free to spread his disapproval around generously since she'd decided to join them, "you haven't exactly been a big help."

"Mister Sulu…"

"Put a sock in it, Chekov," Sulu said, in no mood for Russian gallantry at this moment.

"You as much as publicly announced last night that you had no interest in him sexually." The kiani laid a hand possessively on Chekov's shoulder. "I do." 

"Kahsheel…" Chekov wriggled out from under her grasp uncomfortably. "This is hardly the time…"

"I think that you have been told not to speak," she reminded him coolly.

"You didn't need to drug him, though, did you?" Sulu asked heatedly. "Unless that sort of thing appeals to you…"

"You've never indicated…"

"Well, I'm indicating now…"

Chekov noticed, as Kahsheel and Sulu failed to, that other doors to the dining room had opened and several of the kiani had picked up their breakfasts and wandered over to enjoy the morning's entertainment. Servants passing down the corridor were pausing from their work to eavesdrop. Chekov swallowed hard when a hulking blue form became visible down the hallway, making rapid progress towards them. "Oh, God. Mister Sulu…"

"Just shut up, Chekov," Sulu said, almost enjoying the chance to release all the pent-up anger and frustration from the previous day. "If you hadn't disobeyed my order…"

"This is simply an excuse to bully him," Kahsheel was saying. "The kitchens are full of the drug. You can't expect him to…"

"If I give him an order, lady, I expect him to do his damnedest to obey it."

"Is there a problem here, sir?" Gebain loomed beside Chekov like a huge and ominous blue shadow.

Sulu was shocked to see the crowd they'd gathered. He wondered at this blatant disregard of his wish to speak to Chekov privately, until he remembered from his language and culture studies, that privacy, except of the most basic physical kind, was held in very low regard by the Kibree. Discipline and the enforcement of social mores, however, were overwhelmingly in the public domain. And a moment ago he had rather loudly accused Chekov of disobeying an order. Kiani and servants stood patiently around them waiting to see what they considered justice done.

"Thank you" he said in a last ditch attempt to keep the matter between the ensign and himself, "but I think I'll just deal with this after breakfast."

"I do appreciate the value of delaying punishment in order to let a servant consider his error," Gebain said, giving a signal to servants who immediately jumped to obey his unspoken commands. "However, in my opinion, immediate action is called for in this case."

"Gebain is very knowledgeable about these things," Sulu's old pal Uyal advised, coming to his side. "Since he is in charge of the servants, you should defer to his judgement."

"Now, wait," Sulu protested as two servants returned dragging one of the heavy carved chairs from the dining room. Another handed Gebain a wicked looking stick that was almost a metre long. "I haven't said anything about…"

"You don't need to," Kahsheel said accusingly, moving away from Chekov. "You've publicly accused your servant of disobeying your order. The rest is fairly automatic."

"Don't order more than ten strokes for him," Uyal counselled. "It's a fairly minor offence and he probably really couldn't help himself. I understand the peer pressure can be intense

"Ten?" Sulu could see that Chekov had gone rather pale. The ensign looked very small beside the huge, blue-skinned supervisor. The word HELP seemed to be written in large letters across his face. "Look, if this is a minor matter, then why should he be punished at all? If you object to servants taking peeva, why don't you control the supply? Why do you insist that I let him work in the kitchen, where he's exposed to this sort of temptation, when I've got plenty of work for him to do elsewhere?"

"All of this is beside the point, sir," Gebain said respectfully as he wrapped a huge hand around the ensign's tiny-looking upper arm. "You gave him an order not to take the drug and he has obviously disobeyed it. If he is allowed to get away with such things, he'll soon get into serious trouble."

The kiani all nodded at this. "An attempt at leniency would be doing him no favor," Uyal affirmed.

"I was remiss in not catching his disobedience sooner," the major domo apologized.

"It's no fault of yours," Sulu said quickly, knowing that the mid-caste could also be subject to some penalty. The thought of blaming someone else gave him an idea. "Chekov, who gave you the peeva? Did you take it by yourself?"

Chekov half opened his mouth to answer then stopped. He guessed that the lieutenant had some notion of casting him as the helpless victim of manipulation. However he couldn't bring himself to get Mras into trouble. "I took it by myself. It was just lying around."

Uyal spread his hands. "There, you see…"

"Look," Sulu said. "I'm not going to just stand here and let this guy beat the hell out of…"

"Lieutenant." Uyal took him aside and spoke to him quietly. "If you had dealt with this in your own quarters, how you chose to punish your servant would be a private matter. However, it has become a public matter, and you are beginning to make a fool of yourself. Simply allow our customs of justice to take their course."

Sulu pointed to Gebain. "That guy'll kill him."

"Of course not," Uyal laughed. "He's a professional."

"If anyone's going to do this, I'll be the one to do it."

Sulu was certain that the kiani couldn't have looked more disapproving if he'd suddenly announced that he liked to have sex with mentally handicapped children. "That would be most inappropriate."

Bearing in mind how the kiani felt about the link between physical violence and character, Sulu knew the kianis' shock was a compliment of sorts. It meant they had come to consider him one of their class.

"Besides," Uyal continued, "if you beat him now, Gebain will be furious at being bypassed and usurped and will only beat him again later."

"What is the meaning of this disturbance?" 

The speaker was the director of the station, a formidable female with steel grey hair and skin like a blood orange. Sulu had had words with her over the arrangements for dealing with Chekov only the previous evening. He remembered distinctly making promises about good behavior and lack of disruption to the station's running. Clearly the only option now was to go on the offensive. "Director, my servant has been allowed access to illegal drugs while working in the kitchen. This is affecting his health and his work. If you can't guarantee that such access will be prevented in the future, I'm afraid I can't allow him to work or eat there."

She nodded gravely. "That is a problem. I am unwilling, however, to change his assignment. I suggest that since you have indicated to me that you expect complete and unquestioning obedience from him, you simply order him not to take these drugs."

"I hadn't expected problems of this nature."

"Well," The director was calmly unsympathetic. "since you expect them now, order your servant not to take the drugs."

"He has, Director," Gebain said, graciously putting in his uninvited two cents worth. "And his servant has disobeyed."

"Oh, I see," she said, seeming to notice Chekov and the instrument in the major domo's hand for the first time. "Then carry on with the punishment."

"I am waiting for the lieutenant to specify the duration."

The director turned to him. "Lieutenant?"

Sulu could feel the walls closing in on him. "Director…"

"Lieutenant," she began with an air of infinite patience that he knew from experience actually indicated she was about to lose her temper. "Yesterday we made certain agreements…"

"Yes, ma'am, I know…"

"I agreed to certain concessions in return for which you gave me certain guarantees of your and your servant's behavior. Are you now reneging on those promises? Is this what the word of a representative of the Federation means?"

Sulu ground his teeth. This mission was vital both to the Kibree, who didn't seem to give a damn about it, and to the Federation. Both were jointly attempting to establish an outpost to service vital shipping lanes on Kibria's moon with the new, supposedly swift and inexpensive method of terraforming that was the heart of the project they were currently working on. It wasn't a situation where he could pick up Star Fleet's marbles and go home just because he didn't want to play any more. "No, ma'am."

"Then kindly state the duration so Gebain can get on with his job," she said in a tone that brooked no contradiction.

"It has to be over five," Uyal whispered to him.

Although he knew he was doing the right thing for the interests of this project and the Federation, Sulu couldn't meet Chekov's eyes as he said, "Six."

"Very well." Gebain led the ensign over to the chair. The servants had placed it so that it sat facing the wall. The chair's back came almost waist high on the ensign. "Put your hands there," the major domo ordered him, pointing to the chair's seat.

Chekov started to obey, then paused, as if suddenly realizing what sort of position bending over the back of the chair was going to put him in. "No," he said, stepping back. "I can't do this."

Sulu knew that it would have been appropriate for him to order the ensign to comply at this point. However, feeling that he'd reached his limit for accommodating Kibrian social niceties for the day, he remained silent. In the absence of his order and Chekov's willing compliance, Gebain's assistants jumped into the breach, forcibly bending the ensign over the back of the chair and holding him in place as the major domo brought the stick down with a resounding crack.

Considering the nature of the instrument being used, Sulu figured it sounded a lot worse than it felt… at least he hoped so.

Presumably due to the tenderizing effect of the first, Chekov gasped audibly at the impact of the second blow.

His gasp for the third was noticeably louder.

Sulu looked back to glare at Kahsheel, who was burning a hole through him with her narrowed green eyes. He wanted to be sure she knew that he blamed her for this every bit as much as she blamed him.

The sound the ensign made on the impact of the fourth blow indicated that he was making a very stern effort not to cry out.

Gebain seemed to pause forever before delivering the fifth one. It elicited a particularly loud gasp.

From the sound of it, the sixth and final blow was the hardest one of all.

The director nodded approvingly as the crowd began to disperse. "Thank you for your cooperation, Mister Sulu, no matter how grudgingly it was given. I think you'll see that this will save us all a good deal of trouble in the long run."

Sulu couldn't quite bring himself to make a proper response. Instead he just nodded.

Gebain's men finally released Chekov, who stood up, very red faced, shaking with anger, and looking like he'd be willing to take them all on at once.

"You." The director beckoned him over sharply. "Come over here."

The ensign pointedly did not meet Sulu's eyes as he walked past him.

"You have already been a great deal of trouble to your master today," the director reprimanded him, "and breakfast is not yet over. More than just giving us all a very unpleasant beginning to our day, your thoughtlessness and disobedience have almost caused an incident between our two governments. I hope you are quite thoroughly ashamed of yourself."

Chekov's gaze dropped to the floor.

"Hmm?" she prompted

"Yes, ma'am." His voice was tight and choked. "I apologize for my actions."

"See that you also apologize to Mister Gebain for having disrupted this meal," she ordered pitilessly. "And more importantly, modify your behavior so that there is no repetition of this incident. Your master has staked quite a bit on your obedience. See that you do not disappoint him again."

"Yes, ma'am." Chekov could tell that these words were actually directed over his head to Sulu. By scolding him, the director was indicating her willingness to dismiss the incident as the foolishness of a rebellious servant rather than take it as a reflection on the lieutenant's character and ability to command. He uncharitably reflected that the majority of the kiani had always favored Sulu over him, perhaps because the lieutenant looked more like them, Kibbie-eyed… a half-Kibbie in nature…

"Now, take that chair back where it came from," the director interrupted these insubordinate thoughts, "and return to your duties."

"Yes, ma'am." 

As he passed he heard Kahsheel whisper to Sulu, "I hope this satisfies your petty thirst for revenge… that is, unless you just had him beaten because that sort of thing appeals to you."

Chekov thought for a moment that Sulu might punch the kiani. However - probably because the station director was still within earshot - Kahsheel was able to toss her auburn curls and stalk off down the corridor unmolested.

The chair was solid wood and outsized by human standards. Chekov put all his anger into dragging it across the floor and ramming it back into its place at the table. Sulu had returned to his seat. Without speaking to him or looking at anyone, Chekov took up his post behind him. Ensign Johnson didn't appear to have taken his eyes off his work throughout the entire incident. Davies was completely absorbed in eating a complicated piece of fruit. After a moment she pushed to her feet. "Excuse me."

Sulu finished his meal in silence. If he needed any assistance, he didn't ask for it and Chekov didn't offer. The kiani, finding the atmosphere between them a bit thick, wandered off to find pleasanter dining companions. Their servants cleared away their things until only Johnson's and Sulu's plates were left. The lieutenant seemed to be having a great deal of trouble chewing and swallowing. Chekov, who was feeling his punishment more with each passing minute, hoped he choked.

When Sulu finally put his napkin down on his plate as a signal that he was finished, Chekov removed it with a crisp efficiency that bordered on rudeness. When he arrived in the servants' anteroom with the lieutenant's breakfast things, Gebain was waiting for him.

"I am sorry that I disrupted this morning's meal," Chekov said, following the station director's orders without much conviction.

"Not as sorry as you're going to be every time you sit down for the next few days," Gebain pointed out quite truthfully.

Chekov took off the red serving robe and handed it to him. "I hope you found the experience as enjoyable as you anticipated, sir," he said, with a thin veneer of icy respectfulness.

Gebain nodded. "Almost, but not quite enjoyable enough to make up for the twenty jewel fine the Director has imposed on me for letting you in the dining hall with a head full of peeva in the first place."

Chekov couldn't stop the small smile that curled the corners of his mouth. "How terrible for you, sir."

Gebain also had a rather deadly smile on his face. "Don't be late for lunch."

Chekov's smile faded as he left the room considering all the many unpleasant means of revenge that were at the major domo's disposal. Sulu was waiting for him by the door. Without exchanging so much as a glance, they set off for Sulu's quarters. Chekov set a pace that even Gebain would have found brisk. Sulu followed in silence. In front of the door, Chekov stopped and looked at the floor while the lieutenant deactivated the lock. Sulu then stepped back and allowed him to enter the room first.

"If you've got anything to say, let's get it over with," Sulu said as the door closed behind him.

Chekov merely went over and activated the room's computer terminal. "I have nothing to say."

Sulu crossed his arms. "You're sure there's nothing you want to say to me?"

"No."

Sulu noted that although the ensign had called up the file and paged to the point where he was working, he had not yet sat down on the hard chair in front of the console. "Well, I have something to say to you."

Chekov turned grudgingly and fixed his eyes on the floor, looking for the moment very much the part of one of those insolent, ill-tempered servants the kiani were always complaining about.

Sulu took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I lost my temper and got backed into a corner."

Chekov finally looked him in the eyes. "It is very hazardous to lose your temper on Kibria," he said, in not exactly the most forgiving tone imaginable.

Sulu decided there might be no point in trying to talk to him about this now. He couldn't imagine how he might feel if their positions were reversed. "Well, do you want to go ahead and do some work?"

"Yes, sir," the ensign answered with an unnecessary formality that cut him to the quick.

"All right, Ensign," Sulu said crisply as he joined him by the console, deciding that two could play at that game if that was what Chekov wanted. "If you think you're clear enough to concentrate, finish this then go on to the energy exchange simulations. Work until just before midday, then take a nap for an hour. I'm setting an alarm for you so you won't be late to the kitchens. One of us will come by every hour or so to check on you, if we're free."

"Yes, sir."

Sulu looked down at the chair in front of the terminal. It was uncushioned and cruelly hard. "There's a medikit…"

"I know where the medikit is," Chekov assured him.

"Okay, then…" Sulu started towards the door.

"You must admit…" Chekov's voice stopped him. "Kahsheel does care about me."

Sulu almost let a very rude analogy for the kiani's new found attachment to the ensign slip past his lips, but stopped himself just in time. "She has a funny way of showing it," he said instead.

Chekov shrugged. "She's an alien."

Sulu shook his head. In his opinion Kahsheel had set out to do purposefully exactly what he had done accidentally, to escalate the situation at breakfast into a full scale incident involving the station Director. If the kiani was trying to drive a wedge between the two _Enterprise_ officers for some reason, it certainly looked like she'd succeeded. "I'd prefer it if you stayed away from her from now on."

Chekov set his jaw firmly. "I am sure you would."

"I could make that an order, mister," Sulu offered.

" _Are_ you making it an order, Lieutenant?" Chekov said, nudging the stakes a point higher.

"No, I'm not," Sulu replied evenly. "Because I trust your intelligence and judgement. I know that you will take whatever measures are necessary to protect your own best interests, the best interests of this team, and most importantly, the best interests of this mission."

Sulu watched his speech land and strike home in a way a thousand beatings never could. He could almost see a heavy load of responsibility and guilt settle on the ensign's shoulders.

"Yes, sir," he replied, all traces of sarcasm or insolence completely gone.

"I just don't want to see you…" Sulu paused on the word 'hurt'. "Listen, Chekov, are you all right? It sounded like that guy Gebain…"

"…has a very strong arm." The ensign nodded and shifted his weight a little painfully. "And not much affection for me."

"I promise you," Sulu said firmly, "I'm not going to let that happen to you again. I don't care what anyone says, I'll be damned if I stand aside and…"

"No, Mister Sulu," Chekov interrupted. "You are correct when you say that the mission comes first. I apologize for getting myself into this… somewhat volatile situation. I recognize the importance of maintaining good relations with our hosts, and I assure you that I will make greater efforts for the remainder of our time here to conform to local custom, in the interests of the mission."

Sulu smiled as he put an approving hand on his friend's shoulder. "Thank you. I know you'll do your best."

He had turned to go when he was once more stopped by the sound of the ensign's voice.

"Uh, Mister Sulu…" Chekov was looking at that hard chair in front of the computer. "…Where is the medikit?"

-o- -o-o-o- -o-


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kahsheel continues to try to drive a wedge between Chekov and Sulu.

"Chekov?"

"Aaaa!" the ensign cried out as if he'd turned to find a horned monster rather than his immediate superior had entered the room.

Sulu crossed to him quickly. "Are you all right?"

"Yes!" Chekov wasn't sure why, but for some reason it was desperately important not to let anyone know that he was in anything other than perfect condition. He felt very far from well however. He'd been perfectly fine at first. An indefinite amount of time ago, however, he'd begun to feel sleepy, then cold, shaky and rather frightened. At first he'd worked with desperate speed to ward off the feeling. But that determination had eventually slipped from him too, until he sat, as the lieutenant had found him, clutching the edge of the work station like a lifeline. "The plenum flow equations are not metabolizing properly, so I increased the radial serrations…" Chekov knew that what he was saying was complete nonsense, although he had a very clear idea of what he wished to tell the lieutenant, if only the connection between his mind and his tongue would sort itself out. "…to double percentages backchanneling the geophysical data continuum to four decimal places beyond…"

"Uh-huh," Sulu said soothingly as he quickly fetched a large glass of fruit juice from the dispenser and put it into the ensign's shaking hands. 

"…without recalibrating the pseudo-metaphorical balances," Chekov explained frantically.

"Right, right." Sulu firmly guided the glass to his lips and forced him to drink deeply until the glass was empty.

"But the relational interflow is still in a synechdotal phase," he protested as Sulu pulled a hypo out of the medikit and hissed it into his arm.

"Oh, yeah, I know," Sulu agreed as he ran the scanner over him. "Shhh, just be quiet for a minute."

Chekov tried to obey, but had to make one last attempt to explain. "An elemental overload was imminent."

"Oh, I bet it was." Sulu peered into his eyes. "Okay, now I want you to try to follow my finger… Good. Look up… Look down… Now left… Now right. Okay, and tell me your service number."

"SD710 820," he answered correctly.

"Great." Sulu got up and fetched another glass of juice. "How do you feel?"

"Terrible." Chekov's breath was still coming in heaves as he accepted the drink. "What happened to me?"

"Peeva," Sulu explained shortly as his friend eagerly turned up the glass. "Davies did some additional research in their pharmacology library. The drug is pretty innocuous to them, but you're human, not Kibree. It works by binding to the nerve receptors. And it damages those receptors. If you take enough, for long enough, you could suffer complete neural failure. Your brain will break down into a few billion separate cells that have quit talking to each other, or to any other part of you. The only question is whether you lose your mind before you lose the ability to breathe and keep your heart beating."

"Oh, God." Chekov swallowed hard. "Is it addictive?"

"Probably but we still aren't sure about that," Sulu replied, then decided not to hold anything back that might make it easier for the ensign to refuse the drug next time it was offered to him. "The amount you've already had might be enough to make you dependent."

"So," Chekov said, feeling even worse, "I've been going through withdrawal symptoms."

"No .The drug stimulates insulin production. What you just went through was a mild attack of hypoglycaemia. If you're hooked, you'll start hallucinating first, then…"

"I've already done that."

"What?" Sulu dropped his superior air and quickly ran the scanner over his friend again. "When?"

"In the kitchen this morning, I saw a Kibree raising today's lunch from the dead. I just assumed it was Saint Francis paying a visit. I've been having strange flashes of memory about taking tests on the basic principles behind the operation of sonic showers and yesterday…" Chekov trailed off, deciding not to mention the threatening vegetables.

Sulu took his hands and squeezed them. "Listen, we've got sedatives in the medical kit or you can drink alcohol if you need something to help you get through this. But if you take any more of that stuff…" He paused, trying to think of a sanction that would be worse than what Chekov was going through. "Look, just promise me you won't take any more."

"I'll try, but…"

"But what?" 

"I couldn't stop myself last time. Someone was smoking a pipe. When I smelled it I forgot about everything else but wanting it. When he offered, I couldn't refuse."

"Chekov…"

"Would it be so bad if I ended up taking more?" Chekov asked. "I assure you, I will make every effort not to, but if I should… the damage isn't irreparable, is it? We'll only be here for another four days. When the _Enterprise_ returns…."

"We're talking about your brain, Chekov," Sulu interrupted. "That's not exactly something you can put a bandage on or regenerate a replacement for. And what if the _Enterprise_ should be delayed…" He stopped dead, wishing very much he hadn't said that.

Chekov's eyes got very large and round. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

"Forget I said that." Sulu got up and ordered a pitcher of juice for him. "I'll have Johnson come by to check on you in about an hour."

"Thank you." Chekov was somewhat less than reassured. "I'll look forward to that."

"Keep drinking fruit juice." Sulu refilled his glass. "You need to keep your blood sugar up. Did you have any breakfast?"

"No."

"Well, make sure you have a good meal at lunch."

"A good meal is usually very hard to come by in the slag hall," Chekov pointed out, "and you wouldn't eat what you get in the dining room if you saw them cooking it."

There was a loud hammering outside the door. Sulu reached over and snapped off the door lock. "Come." 

A servant shuffled into the room, his face hidden behind a large stack of towels. From his distinctive height, Chekov immediately recognized the slave as his old friend Mras.

"Towels, sir," the dwarf explained redundantly in his gravelly voice. 

Sulu nodded towards the bathroom, and the Kibree disappeared through the door. "I've got to get back to the control room. How far have you actually gotten with this?"

Chekov peered at the figures on the screen. "Not as far as I thought."

"I'd like to have this finished by lunch if possible."

"I will do my best."

Sulu knew he had to be content with that although he had serious doubts about how good the ensign's best was right now. "Okay," he said, giving him an encouraging pat on the back before he left. 

Chekov took a deep breath and studied the gibberish on the screen. Some of what he'd written made a certain fractured sort of sense, but most of it was pure hieroglyphics. He paged back trying to find the beginnings of where he'd started to lose it. He quickly discovered that he'd written for a surprisingly long time without the full benefit of his brain.

"They let you run that thing?"

Chekov turned round with a start, wondering who else had wandered into the room. But it was only Mras with his depleted pile of clean towels. Wet ones were slung over his shoulder. "Yes."

"Lucky you." The dwarf ran his fingers down the side of the terminal. "Is it difficult to operate?"

"Not if you know how." It took Chekov a moment to identify what was different about the dwarf's speech. The difference was that he could clearly understand the little man. "You can talk like the kiani?"

"I'm short, not stupid."

"Yes, of course," Chekov replied, although this didn't explain why the dwarf had chosen not to speak to him in a manner he could understand before this time. "Sorry."

"It's not important." Mras picked up a file disk and examined it closely. "I hear your beloved Feddie master had you beaten this morning."

Chekov plucked the disk out of his fingers and returned it to its proper place. "That's not really any of your business."

"What'd he get you for?" The dwarf grinned. "For letting Kahsheel scan you her bedslag?"

"That had nothing to do with it," Chekov insisted sharply. "Mister Sulu was simply caught in a situation in which he was forced to comply with the kiani's expectations."

Mras snorted derisively. "If that's what you want to believe. They're all so many skiving desert kreeters to me. But that Kahsheel's a lookly mort, isn't she? And right slidely at…" 

The dwarf's reversion to slag-hall slang was presumably intentional. Chekov felt himself losing his temper.

"Don't you have duties to attend to?" he asked coldly.

"Oh, you're the proud one, aren't you?" the dwarf asked ironically. "Outside slag-hall or certain bed-chambers, that is."

"See here, Mister Mras…"

"Don't give me that slidely speech, Feddie. You've been scanned a slag just like the rest of us." The dwarf leaned forward and tapped experimentally at the keyboard. "Could you teach me to do this?"

"No."

"Why? You don't think I'm intelligent enough?"

"Not at all." Chekov firmly removed the dwarf's hand from the keyboard and erased what he'd accidentally input. "You could probably learn rather easily. However, doing so is against your laws, and I am not here to break them…"

The dwarf laughed at him. "Oh, no, I can see you're not here to break laws. Not you, a slag who's bopped a kiriar, swagged his nood with peeva, chipped the cook's fowl to the jeery for a two-hands of jewels…"

"It would also be against the laws of the Federation," Chekov said, interrupting the extensive list of his crimes. "We are forbidden to interfere with the internal operations of normally functioning cultures."

"Oh?" the dwarf said, hoisting his towels over his shoulder and heading for the door. "And this is the sort of culture you'd call normally functioning? I'd hate to be part of one you thought had problems. I hope you go on enjoying it for the rest of your stay."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"The Feddie's taken an ill temper." The speaker of these words was Nula, the first servant woman Chekov had encountered on his initiation to the kitchens. She was still wary of him, though. She refused to speak to him directly and insisted on referring to him in the third person, despite the fact that she was stirring at the kettle directly to his left.

"He took a hand of licks this morning," the blue-skinned woman, stationed at her customary place at her friend Dollu's side, explained for him apologetically.

Nula eyed him narrowly. "Backtalking, eh?"

Chekov decided that given the unpleasant topic of their discussion he could easily ignore her as well as she had been ignoring him.

"No, for taking pipe," the blue woman answered for him.

"Hand for taking pipe?" Nula seemed surprised. "Off who?"

"Gebain."

"Su… Hand off Gebain for taking pipe?" The other woman squinted at him skeptically as he continued to refrain from comment.

"The Kibbie-eyed Feddie took property of this one." The blue-skinned woman lowered her voice as if to prevent Chekov, who was standing only a metre or so away, from hearing. "He's putting a hard eye on him."

"Please, ladies," Chekov warned. "Let's not start that again."

"The curly red one is putting the eye on him also," Dollu put in significantly.

"Hey, Feddie!" a low-caste Chekov had never seen before called as he drew near the group of stirrers. "Leave off with that and come with me."

Upon seeing a familiar blue crest on the man's clothing, Chekov realized that this must be Kahsheel's messenger. "No," he said decisively, having resolved not to take the engineer up on her offer of an exemption from his lunchtime kitchen duties. "No, that will not be necessary."

The low-caste grabbed him by the shirtfront. "What?"

"I've decided not to go," Chekov informed him resolutely.

"Listen, Feddie," the low-caste said, giving him a good, hard shake. "There's no deciding about it on your part. Either you come with me now, or you backtalk me, I give you a beating, and then you come with me, understand?"

"Oh, all right," Chekov agreed, pulling the protective cloths off his hands.

As he untied the apron from around his waist, the low-caste caught an unsuspecting young boy by the arm and manhandled him into Chekov's place. "Come on," he ordered, pulling Chekov roughly forward by the shoulder.

When they reached the doorway of the inner kitchen, Chekov looked back in time to see his former workmates once more in earnest conversation, occasionally pausing to dart concerned glances in his direction.

The low-caste jerked the ensign's right hand up and tied a ragged looking rope around it. "Carry this," he ordered, placing a large tray in Chekov's hands. "And follow me."

The low-caste opened a door into a room that looked very dark from the outside. When he entered, Chekov found that it wasn't a room at all, but a dimly-lit stairwell that led to a musty smelling lower floor. This was so ill-lit that he couldn't tell what sort of a place it was meant to be. He could barely see the low-caste who walked in front of him, guiding him by jerks on the rope tied to his wrist. They traveled in silence, following a twisting path for several minutes. Finally, the low-caste led him up another flight of steps into complete darkness. From the sounds he heard, Chekov believed the Kibree must have tied his end of the rope to something. He then knocked on something else, and without waiting for an answer pushed past Chekov to exit down the steps.

The door at the top of the stairs opened. The sudden light temporarily blinded Chekov. Through his squinting eyes all he could make out of the person who opened the door was the outline of their long, curling hair.

"Oh, that Nard is such an evil thing!" Kahsheel said, helping him up the remaining steps, then untying his wrist. "He even made you carry your own lunch, didn't he?"

"My lunch?" Chekov repeated blankly as she led him through what turned out to be a curtained-off back entrance to her quarters.

"I told you I'd take care of things," she said, taking the tray from him and placing it on a low table. She removed the domed lid to reveal a set of steaming covered dishes. "Aren't you going to kiss me and say thank you?"

Somehow, despite the offensiveness of her playfully patronizing tone, it was a hard offer to resist. He kissed her on the cheek, and looked at the couches she'd considerately had drawn up to the table. The contents of the medikit had all but neutralized the effects of Gebain's assault already, but an instinct of self -preservation stopped Chekov mentioning that fact. If the information got back to Gebain, the major domo might feel obliged to repeat the beating on a daily basis. He reclined with exaggerated respect for his bruises. "Thank you."

"Mmm," she said approvingly as she removed the lids of the dishes revealing an appetizing array of Kibrian delicacies. She pierced a delectable steamed vegetable with a dainty white eating stick and held it out for him. "Here, let me feed you."

"Kahsheel…" He gently but firmly took the stick himself. "It's unwise for me to be here."

"Yes." A frown creased her pretty features. "I suppose Sulu has forbidden you from seeing me again?"

Chekov tried to remember if he'd seen any of this particular delicacy on the kitchen floor before he put it into his mouth. "Not exactly."

The kiani sniffed disapprovingly. "I find his pettiness and jealousy most shocking."

"That is not what is going on," Chekov said, disappointed to find that kitchen gossip went much further than the kitchens. "He's concerned about me only as a fellow officer. He is also very concerned about the success of our mission here. I feel I should make every effort to avoid putting him in difficult situations that jeopardize his standing with the station officials."

"Even if that means not seeing me?" she asked, holding out a piece of bread enticingly.

"Yes…" Chekov answered, but his voice lacked conviction even in his own ears. He leaned forward and ate the bread from her fingers.

"Since you're already here, there's no advantage to your leaving now," she said, uncovering a bowl of dark purple fruits that had been a particular favorite of his while he was still dining with the kiani. "I promise that you'll be back on time. I wouldn't want to do anything to get you into trouble. I just wanted to see you. Don't you want to see me?"

"Yes, of course, but…"

"But what?" To make his objection even harder to deliver, she kissed her fingers and put them on his lips.

"Never mind," he said, reaching for her. As he kissed her, though, troubling thoughts began to crowd back into his mind. "Kahsheel," he asked, releasing her, "have you ever beaten a servant?"

"No," she replied, guiltlessly snuggling into his arms.

"I mean," he clarified, remembering the fine distinctions possible in Kibrian culture, "have you ever had a servant beaten?"

Seeing the mood was broken, she sat up with a sigh and resumed uncovering dishes. "Yes, for thieving, lying, willfully destroying property. I assure you, it's not something I have done for pleasure. Most servants are reasonably well behaved and I never seek to be cruel to them, but there are circumstances when it's necessary. For example, once, when I was much younger, a servant woman slapped me in the face and called me a spoiled little red-headed uhzist."

"Uhzist?"

"You don't know that word? I would have thought you'd heard it used in the kitchens. It's a very uncomplimentary word for a woman. In Standard you'd say 'bitch', I believe."

"Oh."

"Perhaps you should forget it," she suggested diplomatically as she tore off another piece of bread for him. "It would be a very unwise word for you to use."

"I can imagine," he replied, storing the word in memory nonetheless. After a moment of watching her watch him eat in the same contented way a little girl might watch a favorite puppy, he felt compelled to ask, "Kahsheel, don't you feel there is something wrong with your society?"

"No," she replied unhesitatingly. "I know you're seeing us from the worst possible angle now, but this way is the best all around for all of us. Our society is very efficient and orderly. The most responsibility is meted out to those who are most able to handle it. Everyone works at their maximum of productivity for the good of all."

"What about personal freedom and dignity for all members of your society?"

"Self worth comes from knowing that you are being of service to others," she said, as if quoting a maxim learned by rote. "We don't reward selfishness… in any of the castes."

"In theory, perhaps," Chekov said. "However, from what I've seen…"

"You look tired," Kahsheel interrupted, tiring of discussing comparative sociology. "Would you like to take a short nap before I send you back?"

"I'm fine," Chekov replied, finishing off the last of the fruit. "But I don't think I can eat any more."

"Well," she said, petulantly recovering the dishes. "It seems I've run out of ways to entertain you."

Chekov smiled as he took the lid out of her hand and pulled her into his arms again. Politically incorrect as she was, Kahsheel was still irresistibly beautiful. "I'm sure we can think of something."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"I didn't like the way Chekov was acting at lunch," Sulu said as he rewired a bypass circuit in a cramped access way adjoining the control room.

Actually, it was the first time since the ensign had become a servant that they'd been able to get through a meal without a major disaster. The only truly tense moment had occurred when one of the kiani had irritably ordered Chekov to stop whispering to the people he was serving. The ensign had taken the correction with a great show of humility, then proceeded to give the kiani a large serving of the shellfish dish he'd been warning everyone else to avoid.

"He seemed…" Sulu paused as he hunted for a Feldman probe and the appropriate descriptive word. "…euphoric. I suppose it's due to the drug."

"Drug my eye," Angharad Davies said, handing him the probe. "He's in love. You've known him longer than I have. Surely you can recognize classic Chekov-in-love behavior?"

"You sound jealous," Sulu chided, gingerly taking a reading off a mass of sparking wires.

"I'm not jealous," she assured him, then took advantage of their isolation to ask, "Are you?"

"Hardly," Sulu replied with a laugh. "Although I am worried about it. If Kahsheel wanted to go to bed with him, she could have just whistled on day one. Her approach to all this strikes me as over-elaborate. And I'm no longer on speaking terms with her to try to find out what she's up to. As far as Chekov's concerned, I was just hoping that after our court-martials he and I get assigned to rehab centers on opposite sides of the galaxy."

"I can see that," Davies said, as she watched him fuse two loose ends with the opposite end of the probe.

Davies was a person Sulu had never noticed on the ship. However, it was hard not to notice her in close quarters like this — her rich chestnut hair, blue eyes, the sweet way she smelled.

"Actually," he said, since it seemed they'd left the distinctions of rank behind for the moment, "I'd thought that you and he were…"

"Well, I had thought it might end up that way myself," she admitted, "but apparently I can't compete with alien women who treat him like a lower life form."

"There's no accounting for taste," Sulu said. His job complete, he turned round — an action which put him almost in her lap.

"What are you going to do?" she asked, then hastily clarified, "…about Kahsheel?"

"There's only so much I can do, right now. If this thing between her and Chekov is just some weird sexual thing, we'll all just chalk it up to experience when the ship gets here. But I keep getting the feeling that there's more to it than that. I feel like we're being set up by the kianis for some reason. All I can do is stay on the lookout and hope that I spot it if they screw up. Or…"

"Yes?"

"Do you think you could get to know Kahsheel a little? I mean, couldn't you manufacture some interest in common? And then…"

"The only thing I know she's interested in is our ensign. I suppose I could pretend," Davies offered archly.

"Would you?"

"Of course." Davies impulsively leaned forward and kissed him on the nose.

Sulu grinned. "Thank you." He returned the kiss on her lips.

"Lieutenant!" They broke their embrace before Johnson's head popped inside the entrance to the access way. "That's got it, sir. We're getting readings now."

"Good." Sulu handed his probe to Davies. "If you could just tidy things up here for me, Ensign, I can get the engineers going again."

"Of course, Lieutenant," Davies replied, in a proper tone, but unable to repress her smile as he climbed out past her.

Johnson moved out of the way for Sulu to exit, then looked back in at Davies curiously. "Did I miss something?"

"Oh, yes." Davies was still smiling as she fastened the protective plating back in place. "But don't worry, Mister Johnson, I think it might happen again." 

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

What this damned juice needed, Chekov decided as he swirled the contents of his glass while sitting in front of the computer station in Sulu's quarters, was a healthy shot of vodka.

Unfortunately, although the lieutenant had left him amply supplied with juice, water and sedatives, he hadn't provided him with any vodka. Chekov looked at the food dispensing unit across the room. It wouldn't be much of a challenge to bypass the programming that keyed the machine to respond only to Sulu but operating an electronic device without a superior's permission would be going against Kibrian caste law…

Chekov suggested that the Kibree and their laws collectively commit a physical impossibility as he rose and crossed to the dispenser. Within a few keystrokes he had the stupid little machine convinced that he was Lieutenant Sulu. It rewarded him with a cold glass.

Bearing in mind that he needed to keep clear-headed enough to work on these equations, he carefully rationed out a small portion to be added to the fruit juice. With succeeding glasses, the ratio of vodka to juice kept getting larger and larger, until he entirely did away with the juice all together.

As he absently tossed back another glass, he reflected on how strange it was that the more he drank the more it seemed he needed to drink. There was a great needy emptiness inside him that couldn't seem to be filled. The thought made him realize that he was craving peeva, not vodka. Sulu was going to have to let him have a little tiny dose of it, just to preserve his sanity.

Chekov paused to look back over his work. Just when he was about to congratulate himself on his ability to do higher mathematics when slightly inebriated, the computer pointed out a blatant error in his addition.

The door chime buzzed just as he tapped out a correction. Chekov fought the irrational panic that surged through him. The first rule of not getting caught, he reminded himself, was not feeling guilty. Nevertheless, he hastily shoved the small pile of glasses he'd accumulated behind the terminal before releasing the door lock and saying, "Come."

Chekov's heart leapt into his throat as the door opened to reveal one of the worst possible visitors to arrive at a time like this.

"Mister Sulu isn't…" he began, as the station manager, Datvin, entered and surveyed the room with critical disdain.

"I haven't asked you," the Kibree pointed out unkindly.

Reflecting that this was true, and that it was fairly easy to look sober while one was sitting silently in front of a computer, Chekov turned back to his work.

"Unfortunately, the uniform tunic you took off last night was stolen. However, we've constructed this replacement." Datvin put a folded yellow garment down beside him. It was a fair copy of the original done in native fabrics.

"Thank you," Chekov said ironically, noting that although the Kibree had been able to fit him perfectly with garments appropriate for a servant, this replacement tunic was clearly one or two sizes too small — just enough to make it unwearable.

"You're responsible for keeping this room in order, aren't you?" the Kibree said, looking pointedly at the areas which had become a little rumpled since Sulu had thoroughly cleaned in the morning.

"Yes," Chekov admitted, then gestured to the computer. "However, I am currently completing another important task for Mister Sulu."

Reaching over Chekov's shoulder, the Kibree removed one of the glasses from behind the terminal and sniffed it. "Does Mister Sulu allow you to drink while you complete important tasks for him?"

Chekov cleared his throat. After a moment, it occurred to him that he did actually have permission in this particular case. "Mister Sulu has given me certain leeway to deal with the symptoms of withdrawal from the Kibrian drug I have been exposed to."

"I see." Datvin removed glasses from behind the monitor until they formed quite an incriminating little pile. "I would think this particular method might interfere with the accuracy of your work, though, wouldn't it?"

Flashing error messages all over the computer screen kept Chekov from denying this outright. When he attempted to craft a more creative response, he felt his unfortunate tendency to laugh when he lied begin to reassert itself. In the face of these difficulties he chose to remain silent.

"Mister Sulu left you quite a supply of this." Datvin arranged the glasses into an orderly formation. "Or did he? It does seem strange that he would procure several glasses of this liquor for you instead of a bottle."

Chekov kept very still, as if that could hide his real crime from the Kibree.

"If I were of a suspicious nature, I might be tempted to think that you had obtained these from the dispenser yourself," Datvin said, homing in on it like a bloodhound, "in defiance of our strictures against servants using electronic equipment."

If he'd been completely sober, Chekov might have had the self-possession to say that Sulu had given him permission to operate the device, just as he had permission to operate the computer and deactivate the door lock whenever anyone needed to come in. As it was though, all he could do was bite his lip and hope that Datvin didn't make the next intuitive leap that would reveal his guilt.

"Still, there are security locks that make it impossible for anyone other than the lieutenant to operate this unit." Datvin crossed to the dispenser and experimentally pressed in a request that the computer automatically refused. "Although it occurs to me that you and Ensign Davies were the ones who originally helped my crew input the access codes for these."

Chekov closed his eyes and wondered how he'd offended the vengeful deity in charge of affairs on Kibria.

"Are my speculations too far out of line with reality?"

Chekov sighed. "No, sir."

"Then I'd say you've exceeded your leeway, haven't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right. Deactivate that machine and come with me."

"Where to?" Chekov asked warily, making no move to comply.

"Gebain's office." The Kibree crossed his arms. "Surely you don't expect to commit an infraction of station policy of this nature without punishment?"

Chekov's heart sank at the mention of the major domo's name. "Such things are for Mister Sulu to decide," he stalled.

"I hardly think we need trouble the lieutenant with this," Datvin said, but there was a tone in his voice that hinted to Chekov that the station manager was also trying to bypass normal channels.

"I'm not to leave this room except on Mister Sulu's instructions," he said, pressing his point.

The Kibree pointed a long warning finger at him. "Don't argue with me, offworlder. I am the station manager."

"Nevertheless," Chekov said, holding stubbornly to the crumbling ground which remained to him, "if anything is to be done to me, Mister Sulu must be informed."

"Very well." Datvin frowned as he reached for the comm unit. "But if you're simply trying to escape a beating, I think you're going to find that very difficult."

Chekov had to agree with the truth of this as he watched the helmsman's face appear on the small screen and remembered just how effective the lieutenant had proved to be against Kibrian social convention that morning. "Sulu here."

"I'm sorry to trouble you, Mister Sulu," Datvin began politely, as he pulled Chekov's chair close enough so that the ensign would also be in the picture. "However, your servant has something to tell you."

"Chekov, what's happened?"

"Nothing, really," Chekov assured him, then paused to consider an inoffensive way to state his crime. Nothing came to mind. "I… I… uh, bypassed the codes on the food dispenser."

Sulu blinked at him.

"To obtain something to drink," he explained.

"But I thought I left you with plenty to drink. Did you run out?"

"No, not exactly. However, I… I desired something else."

"Something alcoholic," Datvin added helpfully.

"He does have my permission to drink moderate amounts of alcohol," Sulu defended quickly.

"But not to bypass security codes in order to operate electronic equipment," the station manager pointed out.

Sulu looked at Chekov for a long moment. "Was there some reason why you couldn't call me? Couldn't it have waited for someone to come to the room and get it for you?"

The ensign hung his head miserably. "No, I suppose I could have waited. I simply didn't."

The lieutenant shifted his gaze to the station manager. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention."

Datvin nodded. "You will of course discipline your servant for this infringement."

Sulu frowned. "If you'll excuse me, I need a moment or two to consider," he said, reaching forward and switching off his comm unit.

The station manager put his bony hands on his hips and shook his head discontentedly. "Wrong, all wrong," he complained softly.

"Don't worry, Mister Datvin," Chekov said, bitterness creeping into his voice as he reached forward and snapped off the computer terminal. "You will get your way. Mister Sulu is merely taking a moment to consider the proper protocol."

"Exactly," the Kibree replied. "And the proper protocol is to consult me. I am the station manager. I supervise access to all technology on this station. Furthermore, this is the third time I've caught you in a violation of proper behavior. As a courtesy he should turn to me for advice on how you are to be punished."

"If that is what he is supposed to do, then you can rest assured that he will do it."

The Kibree continued to shake his head. "He comes so close to understanding our ways, but then he continues to fail to pick up the subtle nuances."

"Isn't that expecting a great deal from an alien visitor?" Chekov asked, knowing that being polite wasn't going to save him now.

Datvin looked down his long nose at the ensign. "From the average offworlder, yes. And one can only expect a passion-driven animal like yourself to ape our behavior for a limited time, but Mister Sulu has demonstrated great understanding of our culture."

"Then perhaps you should attempt to meet him halfway," Chekov suggested, his anger making his brain function at near its normal speed.

The Kibree raised his eyebrows at this impertinent suggestion. "What?"

"Perhaps you should demonstrate your appreciation for his culture," Chekov said. "For example, his culture finds corporal punishment uncivilized and barbaric. By recommending such a punishment for me, you force him to sanction an act he finds socially repellent."

The Kibree smiled. "So, you're still trying to wriggle out of a beating?"

"I am suggesting that you could encourage Mister Sulu's attempts to behave within your society's standards of conduct by demonstrating some sensitivity to his own beliefs," Chekov maintained, although if pressed he would have had to admit that not getting a beating would be an incredibly favorable by-product of his argument.

"Hmm." Although the manager was too sharp to be taken in by such transparent tactics, Chekov could tell that he had intrigued the Kibree. "And just what sort of punishment would the lieutenant find less repugnant?"

"Well." Chekov mentally ran down the list endorsed by the current version of the Military Code of Justice. "Confinement to quarters…"

"Somewhat redundant," Datvin commented.

"Or restriction of privileges… which would also be redundant since I have none."

The Kibree smiled. "You might be surprised at what can be considered a privilege. Go on."

"Extra duty."

"Such as another hour in the kitchens?"

"Yes." Chekov was beginning to dislike this game. "A verbal reprimand, reduction in rank…"

"Datvin," Sulu's face reappeared on the screen. "Since you are in charge of technology on this station, I would appreciate your advice on the choice of a proper… deterrent to ensure this situation doesn't reoccur."

"Mister Sulu, due to the intelligence and devotion of your servant, I am sure a verbal reprimand from you will be quite enough to ensure he doesn't repeat his mistake." The Kibree paused just long enough to watch Sulu's mouth fall open in surprise. "However, I must insist that he be punished for this violation of station rules…"

"So much for my reprieve," Chekov thought, resigning himself to a long walk to the major domo's office.

"…and I recommend that punishment take the form of his being assigned an extra hour of duty each evening after he completes his tasks for you," the Kibree continued. "Such duty would be under my personal supervision. And you would have my guarantee that during the time he is with me he would be safe from exposure to peeva or any other potentially undesirable influences."

Chekov could tell from his tone that the last was a subtle reference to his relationship with Kahsheel. That couldn't help but have a certain appeal to Sulu.

The helmsman was busy picking his jaw up off the floor. "I… uh, that sounds perfectly acceptable to me. Chekov?"

"Yes, sir?" Chekov replied, purposefully misinterpreting Sulu's attempt to consult him as a call for his attention.

"Do..?" slipped out before Sulu could catch himself. "I mean, we'll discuss this later, mister. Datvin, thank you for your assistance."

"The smooth management of this station is my job, Lieutenant," the Kibree replied graciously before closing off the comm link. He then turned to Chekov. "Well?"

"Thank you, sir," Chekov said, although he did have lingering reservations about the undisclosed nature of his duty under the station manager's personal supervision.

Datvin paused on his way out of the room. "Let us hope we can continue this harmonious coexistence."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chekov learns more about Mras while cleaning the drains. Kahsheel decides to throw a party.

"The Lieutenant asked me to check on you."

Chekov straightened, jarred awake from a doze he didn't remember falling into. "Oh, Johnson," He cleared his throat, put his fingers on the computer's keyboard and guiltily checked to see that the glasses he'd disposed of an hour ago were gone. "I did not hear you come in."

Johnson crossed to stand behind him and peered over his shoulder at the viewscreen. "It would probably be quicker if you let the program assess the correspondence of those variables. Here, let me show you…"

Chekov switched the screen off. "I know how to do that, thank you."

"Right." There was a full two second delay before Johnson carefully added, "I didn't mean to imply that you didn't, Chekov."

Chekov rolled his eyes at the blank viewscreen and wondered what it must be like to go through life always considering all the possible options and outcomes before committing yourself to anything. Part of the answer came to him very easily. Johnson was, after all, still in possession of his liberty, his health, and the ability to sit down without wincing.

"Do you need anything?"

"No, thank you," Chekov said, trying to be civil, trying to remember that Johnson would be less irritating if Chekov himself were more than half awake or sober.

"Okay. Fine…"

Chekov waited for him to go, but Johnson just stood there — probably going through his long mental list of appropriate things to say and do.

"I'm a little concerned about the lieutenant."

Chekov turned to look directly at Johnson for the first time. "Why?"

"He's much more worried about this mission — the technical side of it — than he needs to be. It's pretty well under control. And I don't think he's handling this problem with you and the Kibree in the most effective fashion. He should…"

"Don't worry about Mister Sulu and the Kibree," Chekov interrupted dismissively. "I think he is half-Kibbie."

"Kibbie?"

"Yes," Chekov said, a devilish notion beginning to form in his mind. "It is an informal Kibrian term — like the word 'uzhist'. Have you ever heard that one?"

"Uzhist?" The meteorologist shook his head. "What does it mean?"

"I am not entirely sure," Chekov said, very innocently. "I think it is a very complimentary way to refer to a woman. I am sure if you asked one of the ladies who work in the control room, they would tell you."

Johnson practiced the word silently a few times, then nodded as he headed for the door. "Well, I'll tell the lieutenant you're okay then."

"Yes, thank you." Chekov smiled, savoring the prospect of throwing at least a few moments of chaos into Johnson's carefully ordered existence. "And tell him I was immensely cheered by your visit."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"Are you going to SLEEP?"

"No, sir." Chekov forced his eyes very wide open. Gebain was keeping him waiting outside the entrance to the kitchens while the major domo discussed some matter with a low caste. Chekov decided to try staring straight forward as if he were at parade attention. When he kept his eyes on the ground like a proper Kibrian servant, it was too easy for them to fall completely closed.

Peeva and vodka had turned out to form a happy combination to recommend to insomniacs. After Johnson's departure, he'd gone back to his work with a renewed burst of effort, but his concentration soon began to slip. He'd tried taking short breaks from the increasingly obdurate equations, pacing around the room, or splashing his face with cold water. The beneficial effects of this strategy were short lived. After realizing he'd spent twenty minutes staring at a blank screen, he gave up and went to lie down on the bed. He had slept until Johnson had returned and woken him up just in time to hurry him down to the kitchens.

All for nothing, Chekov thought, since it looked like Gebain was just going to have him stand in the hall for the whole hour and a half.

"What are you staring at?" Gebain called out irritably from across the hall.

Chekov sighed as he lowered his gaze correctly to the floor, knowing it would only be a matter of time before he'd be yelled at for dozing off again. "Nothing, Mister Gebain."

"Look at this one," Gebain invited the low caste. "He can't even stand still correctly."

Chekov was glad he wasn't looking up so he couldn't see the smirk that undoubtedly crossed the low caste's face.

"That will be all, Ijzo. See that everything's done according to my instructions."

"Yes, Gebain." The low caste gave a respectful bow and hurried away.

"All right, you. Come here." Gebain crooked his finger. "I've got something new for you to do this evening. I expect you'll appreciate that."

"Oh, God," Chekov exclaimed quietly in Standard, alarmed by the prospect of a new twist in his already hideous routine and by the ghastly smile on Gebain's face.

"I'm not exactly sure what that phrase means," Gebain replied in Kibrian, "but I'm beginning to find it offensive."

"Sorry." Chekov chewed on his lower lip. "Sir, this new assignment you spoke of…"

"Oh?" the major dome said with false generosity. "Do you wish to object to it?"

Chekov laughed nervously. "I didn't think I was allowed to have objections."

"You're not," Gebain confirmed, opening the kitchen door and ushering him in. The major domo kept one hand on his shoulder as he surveyed the room and bawled out, "Mras!"

The dwarf looked up from stacking dishes on the table. "Sir?"

"You and this one will be clearing drains today."

As usual, slag hall had gone a little quiet when Gebain spoke, but this announcement was followed by total silence then a burst of laughter and enthusiastic stamping. Chekov looked around in bewilderment. He accepted that he wasn't popular, but he didn't understand this universal approval for his misfortune. Perhaps they were just glad that he'd been chosen for the task, rather than themselves. But no, bizarrely, even Mras looked pleased.

"Take off that livery and get something old to wear," Gebain instructed.

Chekov blinked at the completely erroneous assumption that he kept a change of clothing secreted about his person. "Excuse me?"

"Come, Feddie." His old friend Dollu grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out of harm's way before Gebain could take exception to his lack of understanding. "Don't make foolish speech."

Almost before he knew what was going on, someone was tugging his tunic off over his head. Something old, ragged, and frankly rather smelly was tossed on in its place.

"If you don't mind," he said, grabbing the trousers that the blue-skinned woman was swiftly loosening. "I would prefer to do that myself."

"Make speed, Feddie," Nula urged, handing him a pair of ragged bottoms to match his top.

This must be a special occasion, Chekov thought to himself, noting that this was the first time he'd ever been directly addressed by her. He took off his boots and handed them to the nameless blue-skinned woman. "Don't let anyone else touch these," he cautioned her.

She hugged them to her chest fiercely with a shy, gap-toothed smile.

He opened his mouth to request the small circle of women turn around for a moment. But then reflecting that the shirt they'd given him came almost to his knees and remembering that 'privacy' was a word that didn't exist in the slaggish vocabulary, he simply shrugged to himself and effected the change as quickly as possible.

"Su, Feddie," Dollu commented, as he retrieved his boots. "What white skin."

"And right stickish legs," Nula added critically. "He needs fattening."

"Thank you, ladies," he said, making his way past them.

Mras had made a similar transformation. Slag hall had gone back to work. The noise level was rising again, but there was an air of cheerful anticipation that made even the most dour and argumentative servants seem like happy children tidying their bedroom before Christmas.

"What is happening?" Chekov asked the dwarf in an undertone.

Mras just shook his head amiably as he led him out of the kitchen and into the underworld Kahsheel's servant, Nard, had introduced the ensign to the previous day.

Now that Chekov didn't need to worry about losing his footing while being tugged along on the end of a rope balancing a tray of food, he could take more note of his surroundings. The smooth walls of the upper floors had given way to rough stone blocks. A layer of unswept sand ground under their feet, piling up into small drifts along the walls. Contrary to his previous impression, the tunnels weren't damp, just cool.

"What is this?" Chekov paused to explore with his fingers the intricate carvings that appeared on the stonework they were now passing. His eyes were taken up to where the elegant stone vaulting of the roof vanished into shadow.

"Before the station, this was a Summer Palace. Up from here…" The dwarf thrust his finger toward the roof. "…is where rulers and their families bedded down. Now station directors and managers bed down there." The dwarf spread his hands and smiled ironically.

Chekov nodded. "Form of government doesn't really make much difference if you remain a slave."

"Slags bed down there, there, there." Mras pointed down various dark passages. "Mostly it be too cold and dark. We Kibbies used to be right fond of the cold and dark though."

The dwarf tugged at Chekov's sleeve. "Make speed, Feddie. It doesn't matter how long I take, but now that Gebain's had a taste of your hide, I think he's hungry for more."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

As they continued on, Chekov stumbled after his guide in the increasing gloom. He stopped and blinked as Mras opened a door and brilliant white sunlight poured into the passageway. When his eyes adjusted, he could see that this wasn't the full brilliance of Kideo, but only so much as filtered through a loose canopy of leaves. The little postern opened into a garden — or orchard — densely planted with fruit trees on raised beds. Between the beds, water swirled in deep channels. Between earth and water were narrow, tiled paths. The place was cool. The running water was like music. Chekov couldn't imagine why the kiani never came here — or at least never shared it with their visitors.

Mras was peering up into the trees, fingering the flat shiny black fruits that peeped out of clusters of leaves. Like orange trees, there were flowers present too — brilliant yellow blossoms tinged at the center with pink.

"I don't know how he can tell," the dwarf was saying, "but Gebain says they'll run tomorrow, and he always knows."

"What do we have to do?" Chekov knelt down and let his fingers trail in the water, thinking hopefully that clearing drains sounded a lot less arduous here than it had in the kitchen.

Mras scuffed at the litter of dried, leathery leaves which lay on the path at his feet. "The leaves block the drains, and the kepir can't get in."

"Kepir?"

"We'll have a kepir hunt tomorrow. You'll see. It's our day." The little man's face was full of defiant glee. "And after that…"

"Yes?" Chekov prompted, thinking that it sounded like Mras was anticipating something other than the usual outcome of some quaint local custom.

"That is not really any of your business," Mras said in a creditable imitation of the ensign from earlier in the day. "Is it, Feddie?"

Chekov frowned. Any subversive plans the lower classes might be contemplating were none of his business. As a representative of the Federation bound by the Prime Directive, it was his duty to not make them his business. That didn't stop him from burning with curiosity and desire to encourage and be a part of such plans.

Mras pulled a pair of rough gloves out of the front of his shirt and tossed them to his co-worker. He then retrieved another pair for himself. Chekov was again touched and a little puzzled by the way the dwarf looked out for him — took sight of him. He pulled the gloves on and let Mras direct him to where the stream of water disappeared under the old Palace buildings. The tough leaves were jammed into the grills, particularly at the surface where they floated on the water. Even wet, they had sharp edges. Chekov soon realized the sense behind the gloves as he acquired a half dozen skin-deep cuts on his lower arms. Mras seemed to be working more purposefully than usual as he scooped the piles of leaves around the trunks of the trees. Clearly this was purely a short term measure. The next strong wind or rainstorm would send them all back into the water channels again.

"Mras," Chekov asked, "you have not always been a slave, have you?"

"No, I used to be in the Color Guard." The dwarf's tone was sarcastic and impatient, but not, as Chekov had feared, offended. "Until I stopped out in the rain too long one day."

The Color Guard was a largely ceremonial force with a height requirement that made Chekov giddy just thinking about it. 

Mras stopped work a moment later and sat back on the path. "When the other Feddies go, you'll leave too?"

"Yes." Chekov kept working. Unlike the slaves, if he had a clearly defined task to complete his instinct was to do it quickly, competently and thoroughly. It was that, as much as his alien origins, that caused resentment among the lazy and obstreperous inhabitants of the slag hall. He'd finished the first grill now and moved on to the next.

"And you won't be a slave any more?"

"No." Chekov stretched to clear the far side of the grill, submerging his arm up to the shoulder. The cold water was a delightful contrast to the unremitting dry heat of the day. "Although I will probably be in more trouble than I care to contemplate right now."

"With who?"

"My… uh…" Chekov couldn't think of the correct Kibrian word. "In Standard — Feddie speech — he's called a 'captain'. He's my leader… not a master, although he does oversee what I do… although I am not in any way a servant…"

"I know." Mras brushed aside his increasingly complicated attempt at an explanation. "Short, not stupid. Remember?"

"Yes, sorry."

The dwarf cocked his head on one side. "What will you do to the Kibbie-eyed one?"

"Mister Sulu?" Chekov shrugged. "Nothing. Why?"

"I'd give him soft belly full of dirty knife until he made squeals like a rutting…"

"That would not do either one of us much good," Chekov pointed out, choosing to skate over his companion's vicious notion of revenge.

The dwarf shook his head. "I take no understanding of you, Feddie. As morts say, you're like a vzisch."

"And what is that?"

"Little creature." The dwarf held his hands less than a foot apart. "Big eyes, shiny fur. Sometimes they're tame enough to sit on your shoulder. Then I've seen the same one near bite a nammie's arm off for looking at it wrong."

Chekov frowned. "Now I think I am the one not taking understanding of you. Surely I do not seem so temperamental."

"You take temper at everything and nothing, but this Kibbie-eyed one takes property of you, puts you in slag hall, has you beaten, keeps you in his room at night…"

"Mister Mras…" Chekov began to protest, then stopped himself. "No, I will not attempt another explanation. I have not been listened to in the past and I know I will not be listened to now. Believe what you will, then. Believe I am like this little creature with teeth, if you like. But, I will tell you that I _have_ taken a temper or two with Mister Sulu in the past few days."

The dwarf grinned. "If you had that dirty knife in your hand, maybe you would have used it… then you'd be up for bid again."

Chekov took a long stride across the water channel to reach the next grill. He reflected ruefully that he was at least better off belonging to Sulu than one of the natives and that perhaps he should give Sulu that much credit.

"That curly red one would sell her own mother as a bedslag for the jewels to take property of you." Mras snorted. "You'd not spend your days stirring if that…"

"Please," Chekov interrupted before the dwarf's speculations on his life as the kiani's property took a more graphic turn. "I am very fond of Kahsheel. I would prefer you did not speak about her in that way."

Mras sneered knowingly. "What about the girl-Feddie? Day Veez? Are you and her 'fond' too?"

"She and I are co-workers… friends, perhaps. That's all."

"Oh, Feddie!" The dwarf laughed at him. "What you don't know!"

"What are you talking about?"

"At the yellow hour break I am helping carry chairs to the west wing. Day Veez is making speech with Curly Red in the hall. 'I wouldn't mind playing mistress to your slave boy,' she says…"

Chekov went cold inside. Mras was right, he wasn't stupid. He'd remembered what Davies had said, presumably heard via the translator that Davies, like Johnson, carried everywhere with her, and he'd parroted her very words in Standard. It was exactly what Davies would have said, even down to her slight off-English singsong. The dwarf must have a memory like a Vulcan.

Mras grinned and shook a finger at him. "You're taking a temper now."

"I do not find this at all humorous," Chekov warned him.

"It hurts to be thought of as a slag, doesn't it?" Mras asked, suddenly very serious. "To be treated like you're a thing, an animal, a piece of property instead of a person. It isn't fair. It isn't right, is it?"

"It certainly isn't," Chekov agreed, using more force than was strictly necessary to remove a fistful of leaves.

"It's not 'normally functioning' either, is it?"

Chekov felt quite inclined to agree, but decided to keep his own problems with the Prime Directive to himself.

"You could help us, Feddie," the dwarf said persuasively. "Just a little revenge, a little dirty knife…"

"What good could that possibly do you?"

"What good will anything do us?" Mras countered bitterly. "You know that things are about to improve around here? You been giving ear to the dream peddler?"

"I know…" Chekov began, but his experience on Kibria had corrupted his faith enough that he had to correct himself and say, "I mean, I believe that if I do something to try to make things better here, ultimately I will only be making things worse."

"What's that?" the dwarf demanded angrily. "Is that what you think? I'd kill myself if I believed that. What a stupid thing to believe."

Chekov really didn't have an answer for him. Despite all his Academy training to the contrary, the Prime Directive did seem like a pretty stupid set of rules at this moment.

Mras got up off his backside and looked at what Chekov had achieved. "You work fast. If we go back too soon, Gebain will think we haven't done it properly. Slow down."

There were six large grills in all and Chekov had all but cleared the fifth. Mras clambered past him to reach the last one. He thrust his hands deep into a log jam of leaves. There was a swirl of something in the water, a snap of teeth, and the Kibree pulled his arm back out with a low exclamation of pain. All the color washed out of his face as if it were pouring out of his lacerated arm along with his bluish-red blood. The remaining parchment color looked so awful that Chekov assumed the victim had gone into shock. He pulled his shirt off and, wishing it was cleaner, twisted it firmly around a twenty-centimetre long, bone deep bite. He held the arm up, trying to get Mras to his feet while he was still conscious. "You need a doctor, and I can't remember the way back…"

"Take ease, take ease," the dwarf wheezed painfully. "Give me take breath a moment. Aah. Give me help of taking rip of this here…" He tugged at his sodden sleeve.

Between Mras' dialect and his anguished breathlessness, Chekov was beginning to lose any sense of what the dwarf was saying. "You need a doctor," he repeated.

"No doctor for me." The dwarf laughed as Chekov half-walked, half-dragged him forward. "Doctors take no sight of slags unless kiree gives orders. I cop no owner. No one wants Mras. You cop chew, Feddie?"

After a blank moment, Chekov realized Mras was asking for something for the pain. "No, I'm sorry, but I don't have any peeva. I am not allowed, remember?"

The dwarf spat out something that sounded like a curse. "I'll take a stick to that Kibbie-eyed Feddie myself, if I live so long!"

"Try to conserve your strength," Chekov advised, struggling to get them both through the doorway.

The dwarf laughed giddily. "I copped your fate this time, Feddie."

"What?"

"That big mouth was there for you, Feddie." The little man's eyes were wild, but his meaning was unmistakable as he shook his bleeding arm in Chekov's face. "This was meant for you."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

The primary thing that worried Mister Sulu when he returned to his quarters to shower and change before the evening meal and found a trail of bloody footsteps leading to his door was that he wasn't worried. He was beginning to resign himself to the fact that Chekov and the Kibree would generate one crisis after another until the whole mission was swallowed up in a final overwhelming cataclysm.

Chekov was sitting on the end of Sulu's bed constructing a sling out of what had once been Sulu's top sheet — before it had been offered a more rewarding career in surgical supplies — for a short, ugly, vaguely familiar-looking Kibrian servant. The servant tried to rise to his feet in response to Sulu's entrance. Chekov did not.

"That's not necessary," the ensign informed his patient, pushing him back down gently so he could continue his work.

Sulu folded his arms and frowned at the scattered contents of the medikit that shouldn't have been seen by Kibrian eyes, let alone been put on a Kibrian body. "Have we opened a sickbay?"

"Temporarily," Chekov answered testily.

"Okay, Chekov. Just tell me what happened and why you didn't take this guy to the station's Medical Officer."

"I did. He refused to treat him. There were no orders from anyone of consequence requesting treatment. Apparently a mere slave bleeding to death does not constitute enough of an emergency to inspire anyone to attempt a circumvention of their bureaucracy."

"Su, Feddie, take quiet," Chekov's companion warned him softly. "This one will have your hide for this."

"Listen, fellow, I am already in possession of much more of Mister Chekov's hide than I ever wanted in a lifetime," Sulu assured the dwarf as he sank down tiredly into a chair opposite the bed. "Okay, let me think about this."

Chekov frowned at him. "What do you mean, 'think about this'?"

Sulu gave a gesture that took in Mras and the medikit. "I don't have to tell you what's wrong with this picture, do I?"

"Wrong?" Immediately Sulu regretted his word choice. "I think I can point out a few things that are very wrong here, Mister Sulu…"

"Okay, okay. Just calm down for a minute, Chekov," Sulu requested firmly. "I'm not mad at you or anything."

"You will be," the ensign predicted.

"Huh?" Sulu asked, begging the fates that he'd misheard.

"I was rather rude to the medical officer," Chekov replied unrepentantly.

"Yeah." Sulu massaged the aching spot that had developed between his eyebrows with his thumb and his forefinger. "Well, that's just par for the course."

They were interrupted by a knock at the door. When Sulu called, "Come!" he was expecting Johnson or Davies. The grey-green Kibrian face which appeared around the door instead came as something of a surprise until Sulu recognized him as the station's Medical Officer, come to complain about Chekov, presumably. At least this meant he'd not gone directly to the Station Director with his grievance.

"Doctor…" Sulu rose, steeling himself for the worst. "Please allow me to apologize…"

Unexpectedly the doctor interrupted him by placing the back of his hand over his own mouth in the accepted Kibrian gesture for silence. "No, I've come to make my apologies."

There was a momentary stand-off. Sulu was both surprised and uncertain. Was the doctor worried that he hadn't taken sufficient care with the lieutenant's property, or…

The Medical Officer stepped past Sulu, as if the lieutenant didn't interest him much, to Chekov and his patient. He took Mras' arm from the ensign. His fingers hesitated over the neat dressing. "You cleaned this properly? What did you use?" He followed Chekov's pointing finger to the antiseptic spray — the ensign had decided not to use anything more sophisticated for fear of doing more harm than good. In the same spirit he'd closed the wounds with dermal suture pads rather than the attempting to accelerate regeneration of new tissue with all the technology available to him. The doctor's eyes lingered on the open medikit and its assorted miracles.

"No large blood vessels broken?"

"I don't think so."

"How much bleeding once you closed it?"

Chekov shook his head, ignorant of what was normal for a Kibree with fifteen or so inch-deep tooth marks on his arm. "It was bleeding, but not flowing."

The doctor turned his attention to Mras, brushing a palm over the dwarf's brow for temperature, perspiration, or some other indicator of health. "Can you move all your fingers?"

The dwarf obliged.

"If it begins to bleed excessively, or you experience fever, swelling or light-headedness, come to me straight away. Do you understand what I mean?"

"Of course he understands," Chekov retorted indignantly. "He may be short, but he's not stupid."

"Chekov," Sulu warned.

"Come to me just before the blue hour tomorrow, whatever the circumstances." The doctor returned his attention to Chekov. "You have medical training?"

"Only in first aid — not to treat Kibree." At the prompting sound of Sulu clearing his throat, Chekov reluctantly added, "…Sir."

"He was bitten by a klee fish. Where? In the kitchen?"

"Kepir orchard." Mras spoke for the first time since the doctor's arrival.

The doctor snorted — through disgust or disbelief, Sulu couldn't tell. He was inclined to the latter interpretation. Getting bitten by a fish in an orchard sounded unlikely, even for one of Chekov's exploits.

"Someone put it in there for you, Mras?" 

"Maybe," the dwarf said to the floor. "Maybe it was there for the Feddie."

The doctor squinted thoughtfully, uniting his brows over his nose. He evidently dismissed the matter as of no further interest and came back to Sulu. "Your servant has done a very impressive job for someone with only rudimentary medical training. If you shared your medical technology with us, untold lives could surely be saved."

"Yes…"

"You object to our social structure, yet nearly seventy five percent of those classified as belonging to the slave caste suffer from avoidable genetic damage and birth injuries. Mras, for example, would have achieved normal stature if we had been able to synthesize growth hormone at that time. Adequate medical care would enable many more people to take a full part in our society."

"That would be treating the symptoms rather than the disease, though," Sulu pointed out. "Wouldn't it, Doctor?"

The Medical Officer gestured to the debris on the bed. "You seem to be treating symptoms here. Is this non-interference? Is this any different in principle?"

Sulu gave Chekov a dirty look. "It's a compromise. But there are some things we don't compromise."

The Kibree looked pointedly at Chekov. "That looks like a compromise."

"This is your world, Doctor. While we're here, we will abide by your rules."

"Well…" The Medical Officer dug into his pocket and pulled out a small box. "In the spirit of compromise… I hear your servant is having a problem with peeva addiction?"

"Yes."

The box opened to reveal thirty or so powder-blue pills. "These will help him deal with most of the more troubling symptoms. Give them to him — only one at a time — only when he needs them. It is very possible to also develop a dependence on this drug. Do you understand?"

"Uh.… Yes." Sulu was almost too surprised by this miracle of a helpful Kibree to say anything. "Thank you…"

The visitor nodded, straightened his robe and padded out, his slippered feet silent on the cold stone floor. Sulu watched without comment as Chekov cleared away the evidence of his first aid efforts. The dwarf stayed where he was, with his eyes fixed carefully on the floor.

"You have said several times that you think the creature was put in the orchard to injure me," Chekov said suddenly after several moments of quiet. "What do you mean by that, Mras? Who would have any motivation to harm me? Gebain?"

"It probably wouldn't be Gebain," Sulu said, crossing his arms.

"But he was the one who sent me to the orchard."

"Exactly. Because of that and his position as kitchen overseer, he is legally liable under their laws for any physical damage you may incur while under his control. He can punish you in all sorts of ways, but if you're damaged, he's in very hot water." Sulu pointed at Mras' arm. "If this had happened to you instead of this guy and I really wanted to push it, I could have everyone connected with you being in the kitchens fined — from the station manager down to whatever low caste you're working under. If I wanted to say you'd been permanently maimed, I could have Gebain's arm cut off, or maybe even have him reduced to being a slave. If you were killed doing something he ordered you to do, I could have him executed. The law doesn't protect the middle castes very well. So unless this Gebain guy hates you so much he'd be willing to risk his life and livelihood to get back at you, I don't think it's him."

"Hmm…" Chekov turned to his companion. "What do you think, Mras?"

The dwarf looked briefly up at the lieutenant, then frowned at Chekov.

"Mras?"

Sulu realized the dwarf was waiting for permission from him to speak. He didn't exactly feel comfortable giving it. Ordering Chekov around was bad enough, and at least the ensign could be assumed to have signed up for it along with the rest of the Star Fleet package. "Go ahead," he said informally.

"Don't think anything."

"Uh, Mister Sulu…" Chekov pointed towards the bathroom with his eyes. It took Sulu a few seconds to realize he was being cued to leave.

"Oh, right. I forgot there for a minute that I was one of the enemy too," the lieutenant said sarcastically. As he crossed away from them a thought hit him and he turned. "Chekov, maybe you should try one of those pills now."

"I'm fine. Nearly having your arm bitten off has a powerfully stimulating effect."

"Well, you've still got dinner to get through." Sulu had taken out his tricorder and was taking a reading from the pills. "I thought so. It's basically peeva, but a synthetic, delayed release form. A lot of the trouble you've been having has been due to taking a crudely refined organic drug. Hisfal was telling me how they concentrate it from the leaves of the original plant. The strength varies hugely. With these, you should just get a steady level that your system can adapt to." Sulu poured a glass of water, then stood over the ensign while he swallowed the dose. "Aren't you going to be in trouble for not being in the kitchen now?"

Mras glanced up at the window, presumably to gauge the angle of the sun. He shook his head.

"I haven't yet quite acquired the feudal habit of working at one tenth of my full capacity," Chekov suggested. "I think we're ahead of schedule."

"What were you doing in this orchard anyway?"

"Clearing drains." Chekov savored Sulu's reaction. "And we'd just about finished, hadn't we?"

Mras nodded.

"Okay… well… Don't forget you're supposed to show up in Datvin's office sometime this evening."

"I won't."

"I guess I'll just go take my shower then…" Sulu hesitated with his hand on the door to the bathroom. He couldn't tell whether Chekov was annoyed with him or simply preoccupied, but the presence of the ugly little Kibree made it difficult to talk. "Uh, all that blood… in here and on the floor outside."

"I will see to it," Chekov replied impatiently, and then added very pointedly, "…sir."

Sulu closed the door and started to shoulder out of his clothes, keeping half an ear on the muted conversation outside. He couldn't catch the words but the tone was clear enough. Mras had said something vicious about him — illustrated with a suitable gesture in Sulu's mind's eye — and Chekov had laughed. 

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"Johnson, where's Ensign Davies?"

Angharad had stopped work a few minutes before Sulu. She'd stopped to smile at him and promise to meet him over dinner. Now there was no sign of her in the dining room. Worse, there was no sign of Chekov.

Johnson looked up from a much-thumbed copy of the Station computer system manual. "Um, I'm sorry, Lieutenant. I didn't see you come in. She asked me to give you her apologies, but the kiani lady, Kahsheel, invited her to a private dinner party in her quarters."

"Oh." Satisfaction that Angharad had immediately had some success in getting closer to Kahsheel warred with disappointment, but Sulu managed to squash his personal reaction to the ensign's absence. "And Chekov?"

Johnson had already buried his nose in the manual again. "He was asleep when I went to get him earlier, but he woke up pretty much okay, I think. The guy in charge of the servants told me he needed to allocate some of the serving staff to take care of the party…"

"And you volunteered Chekov?"

"No, sir." Johnson shook his head in puzzlement. "He more told me than asked me. I thought he must have already cleared it through you."

"Damn."

The ensign looked stricken. "I'm so sorry, sir."

"Never mind, Johnson. It's not your fault. I didn't want Chekov to spend any more time with Kahsheel, but if Davies is going to be there, I suppose things will be all right." Awkward as hell, he added to himself, but all right. "How's your side of things coming along?"

"I'm ahead of schedule, sir. The energy transfer rates are sorted out. What Mister Chekov did was…"

"A total mess?"

Johnson paused as if trying to find a way to confirm this tactfully. In the end he went for blunt honesty. "Yes, sir. Uh, I've been wondering if we're really gaining anything by having him do any work. I think I can…"

"He may be absolutely useless, but I think it's important that he feels like we still need him."

Johnson took a roll from a passing servant and said, "Thank you," loudly and conspicuously. He then nodded gravely as if taking on board a new viewpoint on a difficult problem. "Of course. I hadn't really looked at things like that. Sir, Ensign Chekov really isn't taking this very well."

Sulu tried not to be offended by the implication that this was something he hadn't already noticed for himself. "No. I'm not sure if I would either."

"Perhaps if you and I sat down with him and gave him a thorough briefing on Kibrian culture…"

The lieutenant tried not to smile. The idea did have some merit, though not in the way the meteorologist meant it. If Chekov continued to be unruly, making him sit through a lecture from Johnson would be a perfectly hellish punishment. "No offence, Ensign, but I think Mister Chekov is getting a great deal of first hand experience with Kibrian culture right now."

"I don't know, sir." Johnson rubbed a spot on his cheek that still looked red. "He's sure got some strange ideas about the language."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"Oh, marvelous!" Kahsheel nodded approvingly at the array of servants lined up for her inspection outside the door to her quarters.

"I'll need this one, this one and this one…" She tapped her choices on the chest as she worked her way down the line. "…This one… these two… this one…" She smiled as she came to the small, dark-haired servant at the end of the queue. "…And particularly this one," she said, caressing an un-Kibrian fair-skinned cheek that had gone rather pink. She turned and handed the major domo a small sack of jewels. "Gebain, you're a treasure!"

"Those you can have until morning, but this one…" Gebain reached out and putting his hand on top of the smallest servant's head, forced a brown-eyed gaze that had been travelling up Kahsheel's body towards her face back down correctly towards the floor. "…I'll be coming back for. He's got to be returned to his owner after a reasonable length of time."

"Of course. I understand," Kahsheel replied, then called over her shoulder, "Nard, take charge of these for me. Gebain, there is a minor matter I need to discuss with you."

"All right," Kahsheel's weasel-faced servant ordered as the kiani took the major domo a ways apart. "All you slags who were picked, take a step forward… Now, face right… Hey, you at the end! Pay attention!"

Chekov belatedly moved forward into the ranks of the chosen. He strained his ears but could not make out any of the conversation — of which he suspected he might be the subject — behind him.

"All right, move forward and inside… forward and inside.. forward and inside." Nard directed the servants passing him like a traffic cop. "Come on there, you at the end. Hurry it up."

Chekov followed the file of servants into Kahsheel's quarters which were in the final stages of being cleaned and decorated by some of her own small personal staff.

"Stop," Nard ordered. "Face front and hold your hands out."

Having been last to come in now made Chekov first in line for inspection.

"What's this?" Kahsheel's servant demanded, turning the ensign's hands over and pointing at the blue-black flecks under his fingernails.

"Blood, probably," Chekov replied.

"Well, they'll probably have to be scrubbed a little better than that, won't they?" Nard said caustically before moving down the line. "Pretty good… Fair… Hey! Did I tell you that you could put your hands down?"

Chekov brought his hands back up to waist level. "Sorry."

"That's 'Sorry, Sir',slag… And keep your eyes where they're supposed to be," Nard warned before continuing down the line. "Okay, good… Not good… Fair…"

A familiar fragrance swept into the room a moment before an umber-colored hand closed over Chekov's and pulled him gently out of the ranks.

Kahsheel giggled as she led him by the hand through the entrance to her bed chamber. "What a little troublemaker you are!" she scolded, playfully tousling his hair. "Haven't you learned anything yet about acting like a proper servant?"

"I've learned I don't like it very much," he replied sourly as she began to undo the fastenings of his tunic. "At the risk of sounding incredibly naive, what am I doing here, Kahsheel?"

"Just what it looks like. I'm having a party and I requested a few extra servants to help me." She leaned close to his ear and whispered, "And yes, I did request you in particular, but that's a secret."

"Does Mister Sulu know that I am here?"

The kiani sighed impatiently. "He does by now and if he truly objects he can come and drag you back to the dining hall. But until that happens or until Gebain comes for you, you're mine. And I insist that you stop… fretting over what your precious Lieutenant Sulu may think."

He was in the midst of a rebuttal when she suddenly tilted his head up and looked at his eyes. "Speaking of things Sulu won't like…" She smiled as she shook her head and clicked her tongue. "I see you managed to get into the peeva again. Shame on you. Or did you just take it for those bruises? You're not in pain now, are you?"

Chekov blinked. His eyes had become increasingly light sensitive after he'd taken the blue pills. Apparently the refined drug shared peeva's more harmless side effects. "Actually…"

"Oh, you don't need to lie to me." She kissed him on the forehead. "I know you're intelligent enough to judge how much you need to take the edge off and I admire you for defying him. Sulu's treating you like you're a child."

In the face of this comment, it was a little awkward to admit his eyes were dilated because Sulu had forced him to take a different drug because he didn't think Chekov could get through dinner without breaking down. "Well…"

"Just the same, I'll give you a little something to take care of this before you leave." She kissed him on the eyelids. "I'd hate to give him an excuse for a repeat of this morning."

"Kahsheel, he didn't…"

"Please, don't defend him." Kahsheel abruptly moved away from him and towards one of the chamber's large closets. "I don't want to have that conversation again."

Chekov crossed his arms and sighed. Again, he wasn't being listened to. However Kahsheel was so beautiful he just couldn't seem to get angry with her. "Is that another order from my owner for the night?" he teased.

She looked back over her shoulder to see if her was serious, then tossed her red-gold hair imperiously. "Yes," she said, feigning petulance. "It is." 

He came over to her and pushed the mass of curls aside so he could kiss her long slim neck. "Then I must obey," he murmured, giving loving attention to each vertebrae.

She only allowed herself to enjoy his efforts for a moment before she pulled away. "Oh, you're incorrigible!" she scolded lightly, laying something made of green cloth out on the bed. "Can't you see I've got a thousand things to do? Here, this is what I want you to put on. Do you like it?"

The outfit was a stylized version of the usual servant's livery. It was tailored to be a little more closely fitting than what he was wearing. The neck, front placket and cuffs were made of joined hexagons of olive green and gold and white material. At various places the outfit was cleverly decorated with braided strands of the same materials and bits of gold chain. It was a finely made garment, by planetary standards, but not the sort of thing Chekov had ever seen a free person wear. It also conspicuously lacked Sulu's cipher.

"It's very…" He folded his hands behind his back. "…Kibrian."

"Men never appreciate clothes," she sighed, sitting down at a small table with a mirror to retouch her hair. "Your Ensign Davies is going to be here for my party."

"Oh?" Chekov looked back at the fancy outfit laid out for him in the context of what Mras reported overhearing Davies say to Kahsheel. "Oh."

"It's very important to me that she has a very good time tonight."

"And so you have brought me here to serve…" The ornamental chains on one sleeve jingled as he picked it up between two fingers. "…as entertainment for her?"

Kahsheel's face in the mirror lost all its gaiety as she put her hair brush down.

"Don't be difficult," she said so quietly it almost seemed she was saying it to herself. "Tonight of all nights, don't be difficult."

There was something disturbing about her tone.

"Kahsheel?" Chekov crossed to her. "What's the matter? Why is tonight so important?"

The kiani tried to laugh and erase her sudden seriousness. "It's just because of the party. It's just that I want to impress Ensign Davies. I want her to like me, to trust me, to feel she can confide in me. Is that so strange?"

"You are trembling," he said, picking up her hand. "What is it, Kahsheel? What are you afraid of?"

She quickly rose and pulled away. "I'm afraid that if I dawdle here with you much longer, I'll be late for my own party."

As she headed for the door, Chekov thought of the fate Mras had suffered for being too close to him. "Is there something or someone threatening you, Kahsheel? Because of me?"

She paused at the doorway with her back to him. "What could you possibly do if there were?" she asked, very, very quietly.

He stepped close to her, and turned her around by the shoulders. "You might be surprised at the things I could and would do to protect you."

She smiled and put her arms around him. "That is certainly the thing I like most about you," she said, kissing him. "You always manage to surprise me."

"Kahsheel," he began seriously, but she silenced him with another lingering kiss.

"See the effect you have on me?" she scolded playfully as she pulled away. "Didn't I tell you that I have a thousand things to do? It's a good thing I don't own you. I'd never get anything done. Now go wash your hands and face then get into that nice outfit I got for you."

"Kahsheel…"

"No, I'm not listening to another word," she insisted, putting her hands over her ears. "Now, do as I tell you, or I'll call Nard in here to take charge of you. And as you've seen, he's an absolute terror when he has a little power over someone."

Chekov reflected that he might be overreacting because of his own recent brush with disaster and uncertainty over its cause. Perhaps the kiani was only nervous and moody because of her silly party. He didn't really know her that well and it was always very possible to misread the body language of an alien. And yet he would swear there was something else… At any rate, it seemed that the only way to find out anything more was to go along with this foolish charade.

"All right," he said reluctantly. "However, I do not wish…"

"Silence, slave!" Kahsheel stamped her foot and pointed. "Or I'll have to undress you myself."

"Oh, most gracious and terrible mistress!" Chekov pleaded in mock abjection, entering into the game as he backed away towards the bathroom. "Not that! Anything but that!"

"Well," she relented. "Perhaps later, if you're very good."

"Then I will strive for absolute perfection."

Over the sound of water in the basin as he tried to get the last traces of the dwarf's blood off his fingers, Chekov could hear the clink of dishes.

"I've gotten you something to eat," Kahsheel called. "Are you hungry?"

"I am always hungry."

"Good. Go ahead and eat now before you change. I don't want anything to get on the new clothes."

"Of course." Chekov paused in reaching for a towel, wondering why he should find Kahsheel so attractive when a good deal of the time she simply sounded like his mother.

"I've got to check on the food… and see that Nard isn't abusing any of the servants I borrowed. Try to be ready when I come back."

"I will."

The kiani had already exited by the time Chekov re-entered the room. He smiled when he saw the selection of food and drink she'd left for him. They were all within his small range of favored Kibrian delicacies. He'd never actually told her what he liked to eat, but somehow she knew. She must have been watching him intently from the moment they'd met.

When he picked up a piece of dark red fruit and bit into it, a strange sensation filled his mouth. A warmth spread all over his body. It was a fire that called to his very blood. Peeva.

He forced himself to spit the bite out. A shuddering tremor shook him as his body protested at being denied something it believed it could not live without. Another one rocked him as he forced his trembling hand to release the rest of the fruit back onto the plate. Yet another shiver of pure addicted desire took him as he sat staring at the dish, realizing what it meant. 

Kahsheel is trying to drug me again, he thought, heartsick. Why? He was doing everything she asked of him, if somewhat reluctantly at times. There was certainly no need to drug him to continue their physical relationship. What they'd done with the remainder of their time together when she'd borrowed him from the kitchens at lunch should have made that abundantly clear.

She'd said he might have taken it for the pain. Was that her reason? Then why conceal it? Or perhaps it had something to do with Ensign Davies and this stupid party. Could it be that there was something she wanted him to do with — or to — Davies that she didn't think he'd do of his own free will? 

Chekov frowned. The possibilities there ranged from the merely annoying to the upsettingly embarrassing to the completely unthinkable.

Perhaps it wasn't Kahsheel who'd tried to drug him at all. Perhaps it was whoever had put that big-mouthed fish into the orchard. 

Yes, Chekov decided, eagerly grasping any theory that kept the kiani's guilt in doubt. If someone is trying to kill me, having me drugged would make me particularly vulnerable.

Going along with the scheme seemed to be the best course of action for finding out who was at the bottom of it. He took the piece of fruit he'd spit out and another whole one for good measure into the bathroom and disposed of them. He then retrieved the remaining portion of the fruit he'd dropped, replaced it on the plate and sat down on the edge of Kahsheel's bed.

It was difficult to know exactly how to act. He remembered so little of what happened to him while he was under the influence of the drug. Also complicating things was the fact that the hand holding the uneaten portion of fruit was beginning to shake. He stared at it. It would be so easy and pleasant just to pop the rest of it into his mouth… Surely he'd built up some tolerance…

Chekov took a firm grip on himself and let the fruit roll out of his hand to the floor. Passive, he ordered himself, letting his head roll forward and his arms go limp. You must look and act completely relaxed and passive. Nothing anyone says or does must seem to disturb you.

After a moment, he heard the soft rustle of fabric as Kahsheel re-entered the room. When she lifted his head up, he kept his gaze unfocused and let his mouth fall slightly open.

"Well," she said, letting his head fall back down to his chest. "That takes care of you, doesn't it, you little devil? Just couldn't resist, thank goodness."

Chekov made no outward reaction, but inside his chest, his heart was breaking. Kahsheel had known about the drugged fruit.

"If you'd been just a little more cooperative, none of this would be necessary," she said, picking up the telltale piece of fruit and disposing of it. "If I could have found a way to keep your mind on alien technology and less on sex… " He heard her sigh. "…Maybe it's not all your fault. Maybe I'm the one whose mind has been on sex the whole time. I don't know anymore, and I don't have any more time to think about it. I don't have any time for your stubbornness and your questions. If you can't help me the way we planned, you're going to help me get to Davies… with whom sex won't have to enter into it… at least not sex with me… Do you understand?"

Chekov forced himself to answer tonelessly, "Yes, ma'am."

"That is a complete lie," she observed perceptively. "You don't understand anything right now, and you wouldn't even if you weren't drugged. But you do want to help me, don't you?"

"Yes, Kahsheel." His answer was the painful truth. Despite all that he'd heard, he still wanted to disbelieve. He still clung to the hope that there would be some reasonable explanation — some villain would appear and claim responsibility for making her betray him this way.

"All right," she said, slipping his tunic off over his head. "Let's see if we can get this done the hard way."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kahsheel's party does not go as planned. Preparations for the kepir hunt continue. Chekov spends an uncomfortable hour with Station Manager Datvin then has another encounter with the Kibrian magician.

"Ensign Davies! I'm so glad you could come!"

Davies smiled as her hostess broke away from a group of kiani to greet her. Kahsheel's quarters were quite sumptuous. The architecture was in the rather geometric style typical of the living quarters of the high-caste Kibree. Everything was carved, overloading the eye with detail and giving the impression that the room and its contents had been fashioned out of starched lace. The shutters were closed for the night and lamps were positioned around the room to create pools of light and shadow. Low tables held food and drink. Couches and cushions were occupied by kiani who were dressed more elaborately than usual and attended by servants in full livery. 

"Please, call me Angharad," she said, feeling a little like a drab country mouse in her uniform.

"Angharad." Kahsheel rolled the name around her tongue as if tasting a fine wine. "That's beautiful. I'm afraid I'm still a little confused by Federation naming customs. You all seem to have so many spare names you never use. When I first heard Chekov introduce himself using his rank and three names, I thought he had a very long title that didn't quite translate."

Davies laughed, although the mention of Chekov did make that laugh go a bit hollow. "If I'd known it was a special occasion, I would have tried to dress up."

"It's nothing really. Just the eve of the kepir hunt." Kahsheel took her by the hand and led her over to a group of mostly female kiani sitting in a part of the room that opened onto the apartment's small enclosed garden. "It's actually got nothing to do with us. Just a bit of fun for the servants. But there's a certain atmosphere about it, don't you think?"

Davies wasn't sure what to say. The half-dozen servants in the room looked as uniformly miserable as usual. She decided to nod encouragingly.

"Dahshe, could you take care of my guest for a minute?" Kahsheel requested of a kiani with skin of a rather muddy grey color and astonishing violet eyes. She patted Davies on the arm before abandoning her. "I've got a little surprise for you."

"We haven't formally met yet," the kiani said, gesturing for her to sit. "But since I work in data processing, I've very familiar with your work, Davies."

Davies smiled as she sat down. "I don't know if you have a very favorable impression of me, then." 

"Oh, yes, of course," the kiani assured her. "Was your team able to correct the problem with the east wing's secondary processing unit this afternoon?"

"Yes." Davies nodded politely. Most of the kiani were really rotten conversationalists. All they wanted to talk about was work, work, work… and their dreadful servants. Speaking of servants… A murmur from the guests further back in the apartment drew her attention.

Kahsheel's surprise was walking three paces in front of her. He was wearing a green livery that looked like it had been made to fit him. His feet were bare and he was carrying a small tray. Encircling his wrists were bracelets made of yellow metal linked by a hand's breadth of fine chain.

"Over there." He obeyed Kahsheel's command like an automaton. "Now kneel down in front of Ensign Davies."

On the tray was a necklace made of colorful braided fabric and intricately painted wooden beads. The Kibree used their jewels as currency, not as ornamentation.

"A little something I thought you might like to have," Kahsheel said with a smile.

"I really don't know what to say," Davies said quite truthfully.

"Well, I do," one of the kiani chimed in. "I say that Sulu is going to have your head when he finds out you've taken his servant and drugged him, Kahsheel."

"First of all," Kahsheel answered loudly and clearly enough so that everyone eavesdropping could understand, "I didn't take him. I went through proper channels and borrowed him to serve at my party. And secondly, I didn't drug him. He just seems to have a little problem staying away from peeva."

Her audience tittered knowingly at this.

"However, Gebain and I will have him back and clear-headed before Sulu can pry Johnson out of the control room for the night."

Apparently the meteorologist's diligence had been noted by the kiani, for this also drew laughter from the crowd.

"Don't be shy," Kahsheel encouraged Davies as the guests went back to their individual conversations, reassured that propriety was being sufficiently observed. "Accept my gift."

Davies was strongly tempted to get up on her high horse and take Chekov out of here. If she did that, however, she'd lose any chance of getting closer to Kahsheel. Sulu had asked her to discover what she could. That seemed to leave no choice but to play along.

"It's lovely," she said, picking up the necklace.

"He certainly is," Dahshe breathed, with a perfect combination of jealousy and admiration. "Why is it that really good-looking slaves are so rare?"

"Well, to be really attractive, I think they also need to be intelligent and polite." Kahsheel took the little tray out of Chekov's hands and gently pushed on his shoulder. In response, he sat back on his heels and let his manacled hands drop limply to his thighs. His face never flickered, and his half-closed eyes remained fixed on the floor. "And our slaves are by definition supposed to be the stupidest, rudest people on the planet."

Dahshe sighed wistfully. "And this one is left-handed."

"Oh, you're so idiotic!" Kahsheel laughed as she sat down on a cushion next to Davies. "Dahshe is one of thousands of insane women on this planet who still believe the myth that left-handed males are more sensual lovers."

"It's true!" the other kiani protested. "They're also usually a great deal more intelligent than right-handed slaves."

"And they're ridiculously expensive because you all believe that."

Davies smiled as she sat there and thought, 'What a pair of bloody bitches!' What was hard to believe was that among the grounds for depriving someone of their liberty was simple left-handedness. She was sure she'd seen someone else eating left-handed only that day. Yes, she had. Johnson. Maybe he should pretend to be right-handed for a little while, just to be on the safe side.

Kahsheel prodded Chekov lightly with her foot. "Go and fetch some wine for Mistress Davies."

"Yes, ma'am."

He had been so quiet up to this point that it was a bit of a surprise to hear him speak again. Davies watched as he silently moved away. The room was beginning to fill up as other kiani and their servants arrived. Although Chekov made his way unassumingly through the crowd doing nothing to draw attention to himself, heads turned as he passed. There were approving murmurs from the largely female audience.

"I wish I had your daring, Kahsheel," Dahshe sighed, enjoying the view. "I would never risk a dalliance with a servant of a master as jealous as the lieutenant."

"That one inspires daring," the kiani answered, then turned to Davies. "Doesn't he, Angharad?"

"Oh, yes," Davies responded, while thinking, 'I hope to high heaven he's not going to remember any of this. He'll never forgive me.'

'I will never, ever, ever forgive Davies for this,' Chekov thought, savoring the fact that in Russian you could pile on the negatives without ending up back where you started. He filled a wine glass for her, knowing that he was going to remember this humiliation until his dying day. It was much easier to be angry with the ensign than with Kahsheel — although being angry with Kahsheel was becoming a little easier with each passing moment. He'd almost lost it when she put the ornamental handcuffs on him. After keeping his act up through that and his grand entrance, he was now determined to see this thing through to the bitter end no matter what that entailed. 'Passive,' he reminded himself as he headed back towards Davies. 'Completely passive and unaffected by anything.'

"…As soon as we get the results of the final set of plenum flow equations," Dahshe was saying as he came back within range.

"Thank you," Davies said, accepting the glass from him. There was an awkward pause as she wondered what to do next.

"Have him sit down next to you," Kahsheel prompted in a whisper.

"Oh, no." Davies could feel herself blushing. "I mean, I wouldn't dream of monopolizing him, after you went to all that effort to get him here."

"Please, you are my very special guest tonight. Indulge yourself," Kahsheel said graciously, but there was an undercurrent that indicated she was on the verge of calling Davies' bluff. "I insist."

"Well, if it's all right then." Davies put on a bright smile as she patted the firm upholstered surface next to her. "Sit down, Chekov."

He mechanically took a place a good two or three inches away from her. His expression never changed and his eyes didn't lift from the floor. Despite the envious looks Davies was getting from all over the room, she found the experience about as erotic as sitting next door to a tailor's dummy.

"Speaking of guests, I must be attending to mine," Kahsheel said, rising. "If you wouldn't mind taking care of him for a while, I would be most grateful. He does seem to have this knack of getting into trouble even in the most innocuous situations."

That much Davies had to admit was true. "I'd love to," she said agreeably. On impulse, she reached over and patted Chekov's leg for effect. "He'll be safe with me."

"Oh, we'll see about that." Kahsheel laughed as she turned away.

Davies looked over at Chekov in time to catch his eyes settling on her hand as it rested on his thigh. She thought she saw his mouth tighten slightly, but as soon as she saw it, the trace of expression was gone. His unfocused eyes aimed themselves at a neutral spot on the floor. Poor guy, she thought, as she removed her hand as casually as possible. Probably just reacting to an unexpected stimulus.

"So, Davies," Dnalt, a broad-chested, pale orange kiani engineer said as he approached her. "What sort of work schedule do you follow on your starship?"

A few more kiani drifted by and joined Dnalt in asking her questions about what it was like to work on the _Enterprise_. Others were more like Dahshe, who was content to drink heavily and ogle Chekov. He seemed unaffected by the attention, though once, when Davies turned to check on him, he did seem slightly flushed. Probably some reaction to the drug, she decided.

At that point, Chekov was watching Kahsheel's feet. Occasionally they wandered into his circle of vision as the kiani mingled with her guests — bare, brown elegant feet. They moved like sparrows among the tropical brilliance of the assembled kiani footwear. He wanted to rub those feet, to kiss the arched insteps, to… He took a mental grip on himself. Later. When this misunderstanding was sorted out. If it ever could be.

A servant lowered a tray of shellfish into the parameters of his vision. Each open oyster-like shell contained a perfect replica of its original inhabitant, fabricated in carved fruit. The perfect edible pearls caught his eye, so like kalinki, snow-berries… He didn't realize he'd lifted his hand to take one until the wrist it was chained to rose in response. He dropped them back down to his lap hastily.

"Do you want one, Chekov?"

There was a tone of almost motherly concern in Davies' voice. She helped herself to a piece of fruit and the servant hovered patiently.

Chekov thought of a rather rude suggestion for what she could do with her motherly concern. "No… ma'am."

Davies wondered if he knew something she didn't about the chef who'd painstakingly created these. On second thought, though, she decided that Chekov was plainly too far gone to care if the whole batch was alive with anthrax. As she nibbled the heavenly morsel, she noted that Kahsheel's eyes were on her. The kiani's gaze carried an intensity that said she'd better start living up to her supposed interest in Chekov unless she wanted to raise Kahsheel's suspicions.

"Perhaps you want something to drink?"

"No, ma'am."

"Oh, come now. I saw you reach for that. I know you must want something… Or are you just sulking because Kahsheel's lent you to me?" Davies raised her voice enough to let Kahsheel know she was entering into the spirit of things. "Well, I won't put up with any bad temper from you, Chekov. So unless you want me to punish you, tell me what you want."

The nearby kiani snickered in appreciation of her performance.

What Chekov wanted at that moment was to punch Davies in the mouth.

Davies knew it must be her imagination, but the silence between them seemed to be getting a little thick. Chekov was definitely still a zombie, but suddenly he was starting to seem like a zombie who was very pissed off at her.

"You're going to have to make it simpler for him, Davies," Dahshe advised, coming unexpectedly and unwittingly to Chekov's rescue. "They have trouble formulating answers on their own when they're like that. You've either got to ask him a question that has a yes or no answer, or give him a command."

"Oh, I see. All right then… Chekov, go and get yourself something to drink." She patted his arm and gave him a little shove to get him going. "That's right, off you go. Hurry back and don't get into any mischief. I'll be watching you."

Dahshe laughed as he obeyed her. "You Federation people object so much to our owning servants, but you all do seem to take to it rather quickly."

"Well, when in Rome…" Davies suddenly realized the kiani would have no idea what she was alluding to. "That's to say, we have a saying on Earth that recommends travelers conform to local customs… In this context it would go something like, when on Kibria, do as the Kibree do."

"Very sensible," Dahshe agreed as Chekov returned with a squat tumbler of milky white liquid. 

The substance didn't look very appetizing, but Davies made a mental note to drink it herself from now on. It was probably the most wholesome thing available.

As Chekov moved to sit down, the normally exceptionally graceful Kahsheel stumbled into him.

"Oh, look. I've made you spill it." The kiani took Chekov by the shoulders, turned him around and carefully aimed him towards her bedroom. "Go wash your hands right now before they get all sticky. Angharad, I'm so sorry."

"It's nothing," Davies said, wiping a few drops off her knees as Chekov disappeared into the crowd.

"No, no. I've made a terrible mess here." She turned and motioned to a nearby servant. "You, come and clean this up! Angharad, darling, look. He spilt some on your shoe."

"It's really nothing."

"No, dear." Kahsheel took her by the arm and politely but firmly pulled her up. "It's dreadful. Come to my bedroom. I'll find you some slippers."

"If you insist." Davies let the kiani gently drag her through the crowd and into her bed chamber.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

As they entered, Chekov was just emerging from the bathroom — looking like someone who knew his way around the place. He immediately averted his gaze from the two women and stood still. Kahsheel was fortunately too busy with her guest to notice his lapse and Davies was too distracted to attach the proper significance to it.

"Chekov, fetch a bowl of water and a towel," Kahsheel ordered. "Angharad, sit down on the bed and make yourself comfortable while I try to find something for you to wear."

This, Chekov knew as he filled a bowl with warm water, was the point at which things could start to get really embarrassing. Kahsheel had retrieved a pair of laced sandals from her closet and was now waiting for him. "Come over here and take Angharad's shoes off for her."

'Please, do not make me do what I think you're going to make me do,' he pleaded silently as he knelt and slipped Davies' boots off.

"And it's all over your stockings too."

"Oh, I'll get that myself," Davies said, hastily removing the black net hose before the kiani ordered assistance for her.

'Please don't make me, please don't make me,' he begged the kiani mentally, right before the order came. "Now, Chekov, wash Ensign Davies' feet — just like you do mine."

He took Davies' plump white little foot into his hand, automatically comparing it with Kahsheel's longer, elegant ones. Things were rapidly coming to a point where it was very difficult to remain impassive and unaffected, for although he'd never really thought much about feet before, since coming to Kibria they seemed to have insinuated themselves into his sexual repertoire. Handling another woman's feet in front of his current lover and the only woman who knew about his new-found fascination with that part of the female anatomy was — to say the least — very unsettling. He kept his eyes glued on his work as he dipped first one foot then the other into the warm water and then toweled them dry.

"You aren't finished yet." Kahsheel's voice stopped him — as he prayed it wouldn't — when he started to move the bowl away. "Go on."

Chekov could feel a red-hot blush burn its way across his cheeks. Surely — oh, please, merciful heavens! — she wasn't going to make him do this.

Kahsheel sighed impatiently. "I've never seen a slave who could be so stubborn even with a head full of peeva. Go on, now. I know you know what to do next. It's the best part."

So this was it. He could throw away the chance to find out what Kahsheel was doing, and to stay in her good books, or he could kiss Ensign Davies' feet. He wished he could break off his act long enough just to turn around and look at Kahsheel. If she could just see in his eyes how humiliated and betrayed this was making him feel, he was sure she'd countermand her order. Unfortunately, drug-deadened servants wouldn't ever turn around and give their owners questioning looks. Drug-deadened servants wouldn't feel humiliated or betrayed in the first place, for that matter.

Starting at the ankles and working his way down, he gave every inch of Davies' feet the devoted, sensuous attention he'd applied to the same task after lunch with Kahsheel. Unlike the kiani's feet they were slightly cool. Obviously Kibrian circulation was more efficient than the human variety. They were also slightly calloused. He imagined that Davies must walk around in her bare feet fairly often, maybe in her cabin. He bestowed one last, lingering osculation on the tip of the smallest left toe and then sat back on his heels, folded his hands in his lap and lowered his head.

"Oh, my," Davies breathed, flexing her insteps, her eyes still closed in pure pleasure. "I had no idea he could do anything like that."

"He can do all sorts of things that might surprise you," Kahsheel promised, fondly stroking his hair as one might pet a cat. "I could leave the two of you alone… if you'd care to experiment a little?"

"Kahsheel," Davies asked seriously, "are you sure that would really be all right with you?"

"Yes," the kiani insisted, but for a split second, Davies thought her smile turned a little sad. "You are my guest. Indulge yourself."

"Well, if it's all right with you…" Davies found it wasn't hard to giggle convincingly. "I must admit that my… um, curiosity is quite piqued right now."

"Good." Kahsheel smiled as she pulled Chekov up by the arm. "Just let me have a word with him before I go. I'd hate for him to take another one of his stubborn fits."

"Oh, sure." Davies' smile wasn't but about one quarter faked. Her feet felt like the gravity had just cut out. "Go ahead. You've much more influence over him than I ever had."

"Now, I'm going to leave you with Angharad, darling." Kahsheel led him over to her dressing table. A carafe of wine was still there from the meal she'd served to him earlier. She picked up a glass and wrapped his hands around it. "And I want you to do exactly what she tells you to do. Do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," he replied keeping his eyes on the glass as she filled it with wine.

"In order to please me, you've got to please her." In a movement so quick and smooth that he wouldn't have noticed it if he hadn't been looking directly at her hands, Kahsheel squeezed a ring on her finger and a few drops of liquid dripped rapidly into the wine. "Do you understand?"

The next required "Yes, ma'am," came out a little choked despite his best efforts.

He managed to keep his eyes from focusing on her face when she lifted his chin. "Don't be difficult," she said softly, then gave him a kiss on the lips that was achingly sweet. "For my sake, don't be difficult."

She turned him around and propelled him gently towards the bed.

"Oh, come on now, Chekov." Davies laughed as he took a few wooden steps in her direction. The wine, the massage, the tension and the prospect of Kahsheel's imminent departure that would allow Angharad to drop this awful act for a few moments were all combining to make her feel quite giddy. "It's not going to be that bad."

Kahsheel picked a small key up and tossed it to Davies. "You might need this. It's for the chain."

Davies caught it with a wicked wink. "Oh, we'll see."

When the door closed behind Kahsheel, Chekov looked at her for the first time. Although dilated and bloodshot, his eyes blazed with an unexpected abundance of awareness and emotion.

"Ensign Davies," he said in Standard, his voice thickly laced with contempt, "how could you?"

The effect on Davies was the same as if a wax doll had suddenly turned around and spoken to her.

"Jesus Christ!" she exclaimed, putting a hand over her heart which had skipped a few beats then thudded into high gear. She took a deep breath in and tried to regain control. "So you're all right then?"

"Do I look as though I am all right?" he demanded as he angrily stalked over to the dressing table and set down the glass of wine.

"I mean, I really had no idea you were just acting the whole time." The gears in Davies' brain were refusing to adjust to this sudden change. She'd been looking forward to a few moments effectively alone to collect herself. Nothing this evening had prepared her to be facing a very sober and very angry Pavel Chekov. "God, this is awfully embarrassing."

He stepped forward and curtly plucked the key from her fingers. "Do not talk to me about embarrassment, Miss Davies," he requested coldly, inserting it into the lock on his left hand's bracelet.

"Wait!" she said, reaching up to stop him. "I think someone…"

The door began to creak open, leaving her no time to explain. Davies promptly knocked her erstwhile slave boy flat on his back. She fastened a silencing kiss on his lips and began to fumble with the fastenings on his shirt.

"Sorry!" someone hissed. "Wrong door."

She held him there a few seconds after the door clicked shut again.

"Whew!" she sighed, avoiding the look of cold fury in his eyes as she rolled off him. "I think I'm going to need that drink."

"No." Chekov sat up, facing away from her. "It is drugged."

"Kahsheel's trying to drug me?"

Still avoiding her eyes, he nodded stiffly.

"Why?"

"I do not know yet. That is what I have been trying to find out all evening… while you were enjoying yourself 'playing mistress'."

Despite the fact of her innocence, Davies cheeks were flaming. "This was just a cover so I could get closer to Kahsheel."

There was a loud scratch at the door and she hastily pulled him into another clinch. It turned out to be a false alarm though. Perhaps a servant's tray scraping along the wood as she/he squeezed past talking guests.

The look on Chekov's face was far from credulous when she pulled away. "Just a cover, Miss Davies?"

"No, Chekov, you're right," she replied sarcastically. "I'm lying. I'm not under direct orders from Lieutenant Sulu to investigate Kahsheel's unusual behavior that has become very, very suspicious tonight. I want to be doing this. I've secretly wanted to tie you up and ravish you ever since I first met you. There. Are you happy now?"

"No." Chekov sighed heavily and looked down at the little chain still joining his wrists. "I am not at all happy right now."

"Although…" Davies sat up and stretched her still tingling toes. Her eyes went on standby as she contemplated the middle distance and wondered whether Sulu could ever make her feet feel quite as wonderful as they did now. "…if I'd known you could kiss like that…"

"What is the next step?" Chekov asked himself aloud, looking around the room.

"No, Chekov, it's my turn now." Davies crossed to the table, picked up the wine glass and poured four-fifths of its contents into a nearby potted plant. "You've done your bit for king and country for the night. I take over from here."

"No, I…"

"You don't have much more time to play spy. Someone's going to be here to pick you up soon. And if you do anything out of the ordinary, you'll blow my cover too." She could see that he couldn't argue with this — much as he would have liked to. She sniffed at the near empty glass. "This was peeva, right? How quickly does it work?"

"Almost instantly."

"Right. We'll need to create a convincing media res to be discovered in… Come here and let me muss you up a bit…" Davies was stripping her uniform off in a disconcertingly businesslike manner, but left her underwear in place as she dragged him into an embrace, ripped the front of his shirt open and ran her fingers through his hair. He put his hands on her shoulders to steady himself, only to have them promptly removed. "Watch it, mister. This is strictly in the line of duty. I don't expect you to take advantage unless I tell you to… slave."

"I do not find this at all amusing," he warned her.

"I know." Davies couldn't help giggling a little as she pulled him onto the bed with her. "I think that's what makes it so funny. All right. I don't imagine we'll have too long to wait. While I practice blank stares, I want you to work on giving me small kisses around the area of my shoulder — that don't tickle."

"All right," Chekov agreed, knowing that he'd never be able to look her in the face at an interdepartmental briefing again. Perhaps if he were very lucky, she'd request an immediate transfer as soon as they got back on the _Enterprise_ …

"Oh, yes." Davies sighed as her eyes rolled up. "That's it. More on the neck would be fine. Yes, very softly. That's it. That's… just… lovely…"

"Miss Davies…" Chekov protested, struggling to rise to his elbows.

"Shut up, Ensign," Davies ordered, pushing his head back down to his assigned task. "I assure you this is strictly in the line of duty. I'm not… mmm… enjoying it… ooo… at all."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"Something very strange is going on," Chekov said as soon as he stepped through the door to Sulu's quarters, preempting the carefully composed complaint the lieutenant had prepared for this moment. Gebain nodded crisply to the lieutenant and hurried away. Chekov waited until he was out of earshot before saying, "Kahsheel attempted to drug me again… and Ensign Davies also."

A look of extreme concern crossed the lieutenant's face. "Where is Davies?"

"Still with Kahsheel. When Gebain came for me, she was pretending to be asleep under the influence of peeva. I don't think Kahsheel intends her any real harm," he said with much less conviction than he would have a few hours earlier.

"What does she intend?"

Chekov shook his head sadly. "I simply do not know. It seems she was using me to gain access to Davies."

Sulu frowned. "Using you?"

"Yes. As I assume you know Davies was pretending to be… interested in me…" Chekov faltered, not anxious to dwell on the situation. "Kahsheel arranged for us to… uh… While I was pretending to be under the influence of the drug, she… uh…"

"You had sex with Angharad?" Sulu demanded incredulously.

"No, I…" Chekov paused. It suddenly registered that there was something more in Sulu's tone than simple concern for a fellow officer. "…Angharad?"

Sulu cleared his throat. "I mean, Ensign Davies. That's her name, you know."

"Yes, I know." Chekov reflected that there had also seemed to be something beyond the merely dutiful in the way Davies had insisted she was only obeying Sulu's orders. "I didn't think you did though."

"Yes, I know her name," Sulu admitted. "So?"

Chekov smiled maddeningly. "It is a lovely name."

A faint pink spot began to appear on each of Sulu's cheeks. "Yeah, Angharad is a very nice name."

"I believe it's… well, it's not a Russian name…"

"Celtic," the lieutenant informed him shortly. "It's from Celtic mythology. Angharad was a type of goddess… or so I heard."

"A Celtic goddess, hmmm…" Chekov continued to nod and smile. "I didn't think you approved of domineering women."

"She's not… You think she's domineering?"

"Well, it might just have been the situation, but she can be quite aggressive…"

"What did you…" Sulu stopped himself, realizing that he was being teased. "Come on, let's go."

"Where? To Kahsheel's party?"

"I'm going to drop by. It seems like we've suddenly developed an emergency in the control room that only Ensign Davies can deal with."

Chekov nodded. It sounded like a good enough cover story, and despite his feelings for Kahsheel, it seemed quite probable that Davies was in danger. "I don't think I should be seen there again."

"You won't be. You're due in Datvin's quarters."

"Oh, no. I completely forgot."

"Well, I'm sure he hasn't. And I want you to understand this, mister. We can't handle any more trouble with the Kibree. So for the next hour you are going to obey his orders absolutely. The only possible exception is if he requires you to do something harmful to you. If that happens you may remind him — very politely — that I should be consulted under such circumstances. Apart from that, I don't want you a hair's breadth out of line. Is that clear?"

Chekov sighed. He didn't think he had the energy for any more trouble tonight. "Yes, Mister Sulu. Very clear."

Sulu started to open the door, then turned. "Which reminds me, I owe you a reprimand for bypassing the lock on the food processor, don't I?"

Out of force of habit, Chekov lowered his eyes to the floor like a dutiful Kibrian servant. "Yes, sir."

"Well, we'll discuss that later." Sulu folded his arms. "After I've had a complete report on exactly what you did tonight with Ensign Davies."

Chekov grinned, recognizing the telltale exaggeration in Sulu's tone. "Then I am doomed."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Chekov stood quietly in the Station Manager's office with his hands folded behind his back. He restlessly traced the imprint of Sulu's name on his right hand with his thumb as he looked around Datvin's office, wondering what the manager was going to tell him to do. From what he could see without raising his eyes too far above ground level, it was already immaculate.

After what was beginning to seem like an eternity, the scratch-scratch of whatever writing implement the manager was using ceased.

"Feel free to look around, alien," Datvin invited him. "This should serve as a model for how your owner's room should look, and your room also — which I might add, seems to be going unoccupied for long periods of time despite the trouble and effort put forth to keep it for your use." Chekov barely had time to open his mouth before the manager continued. "However, I am not interested in any explanations from you at this time."

The ensign carefully closed his mouth and examined the very clean floor in front of his feet.

Datvin got up from his desk and paced a slow, wide circle around him. "I had intended to spend this time with you trying to improve your ability to serve Mister Sulu in a satisfactory manner… However, certain matters have arisen that make it imperative that you and I have a very serious conversation instead."

Chekov could already tell that what was coming next was going to be unpleasant. He steeled himself to keep Sulu's parting instructions fresh in his mind. Whatever Datvin was going to say was going to be fine by him. He was going to get a grip on this situation, swallow his infernal temper and…

"You haven't been enjoying this experience very much, have you?"

That was easily the understatement of the year.

"No, sir."

The manager's circling carried him behind the ensign and temporarily out of sight. "I wonder if you have any idea how much worse it could get over the next three days."

Chekov correctly judged this to be a rhetorical question and remained silent.

"It is possible that you could even die within the next three days."

This suggestion was so chilling and unexpected that Chekov forgot himself and looked up to stare directly at the Kibree in surprise.

"Mister Sulu doesn't seem able to do very much to keep you out of potentially very dangerous situations," Datvin continued impassively.

"He hasn't been permitted to…"

"And you haven't been given permission to speak," the manager interrupted sharply, "or to look me in the eye as if you were my equal."

"I'm sorry, sir," Chekov choked out, squashing his temper down into a small nub of bubbling rage somewhere safely out of sight. Datvin seemed to have taken the upper hand again. He'd apparently dropped all pretense of mutual interest from their previous discussion. Chekov was beginning to feel helpless again, and feeling helpless was the last thing he needed tonight.

"That is something you must learn. We simply do not allow servants free range of their tongues. In a few moments, you will see a demonstration of what we do to discourage those who persist in speaking out of turn." The manager let this hang in the air for a few slow beats before he continued. "There, you see you can be quiet — if you try. As I was saying, your time on Kibria thus far has been fairly unpleasant. There are two possibilities for your future. First, things could get worse — possibly much worse — for you. On the other hand, you could find the rest of your time here relatively pleasant."

Chekov silently reflected that the second alternative seemed about as likely as the possibility that Datvin might sprout wings and turn into the tooth fairy.

"For instance, I could find you work to do outside the kitchen, instruct Gebain to be more tolerant of you, even manufacture reasons for you to be more available to Kahsheel, or less, depending on your preference."

Chekov held his breath and waited for the other shoe to fall. Judging from that list of highly desirable perks, he was about to be asked to do something awfully impossible, impossibly awful, or both.

"In return for arranging this more… pleasant scenario, I'm not really asking much — a mere technical breach of your non-interference directive. It would be an isolated occurrence with no far-reaching technical or social implications. In fact, you wouldn't have to hand over any information as such."

There was a lengthy silence.

"May I speak, sir?"

"Yes."

"My orders specifically forbid me to breach the directive."

"I'm aware of that. But consider the alternative. And I, certainly, would have no reason to inform anyone that you had committed any such — indiscretion." He paused again to allow the ensign to think. A door into the office opened and shut. Chekov was fairly sure that someone else had entered, but they remained silent and outside his restricted circle of vision.

Chekov felt his throat going a little dry as he reflected on what a vulnerable position he was in at that moment. "Sir, I cannot even consider doing what you ask. I respectfully request we discontinue this discussion."

"Your request is denied. We will continue this discussion until I decide it is over."

From the sounds Chekov couldn't tell if perhaps more than one Kibree had entered. "If you intend to threaten me, or harm me in any way…"

"…Then Lieutenant Sulu will object strongly," Datvin finished calmly. "And I, in turn, will accuse you of making malicious allegations. Let me assure you, I have no intention of breaching Kibrian law. I have an unimpeachable reputation and considerable political influence. I will be believed and your owner will be forced to withdraw his complaints. Be realistic. Sulu has been quite ineffective at protecting you. He has always backed down, and will most probably continue to back down. I'd go so far as to say he's learned his lesson and might not even complain in the first place."

This was close enough to the truth to make Chekov's stomach begin to churn.

"I do appreciate and respect the importance you attach to the non-interference directive. It's really a question of whether you place a higher value on your own life."

Chekov swallowed. He knew the correct answer to that question — in theory. He'd also spent the last eighteen months working for a man who seemed to take a — flexible approach to answering it in practice. On reflection, though, it occurred to the ensign that despite all his flexibility, Kirk had never bent the directive to save his own skin.

"I'm sorry, sir." Chekov turned to face Datvin, adding physical defiance to his moral stand. "I cannot help you."

The unknown entrant to the room turned out to be the station's Medical Officer, who stood in the shadows with his arms crossed. He glanced from Chekov to the Manager. "This is a sub-optimal approach."

"We'll see." Datvin set his pointed jaw firmly. "There's still plenty of time." He took two steps forward, forcing the ensign to look up to meet his eyes because of the difference in their heights. "Alien, you may be interested to know that I am having your room searched. I believe you have been involved in the theft of station property. We're looking for evidence to confirm this."

An image of the jewels he'd received in the kitchen for his part in selling the little birds that morning immediately popped into Chekov's mind. He hoped no sign of this was visible on his face, which was being intently scrutinized by the station manager.

"The penalty for such theft, which I believe to have been more than petty pilfering, is amputation of the right hand," the Kibree informed him coolly. "Would you now like to reconsider your position?"

The doctor shook his head. "If a hand were amputated, Federation scientists possess the technology to grow a new one for him."

"That assumes he will survive the amputation and avoid contracting blood poisoning before his ship arrives," Datvin countered.

The jewels Chekov had accepted from the hunchback had been stored with his and Sulu's legitimate fund of currency. The whole cache was in the lieutenant's room, so… Unless the jewels were marked in some way. It suddenly occurred to the ensign that, rather than protecting himself, he might have implicated Sulu. He forced himself to keep his face blank.

Datvin stepped back and with a clap of his hands summoned two servants into the room. They were both very large, muscular Kibree who looked more suited to manual labor than domestic service.

"Under your own laws," Chekov said, clinging to the interpretation Sulu had espoused earlier like a lifeboat as the two giants moved to flank him, "if I am damaged in any way, you are legally liable to…"

"Again, you force me to remind you that you are speaking without permission, " Datvin interrupted. "If you remember, I told you earlier that I was going to show you what happened to slaves who couldn't seem to learn how to refrain from speaking out of turn. Since you have shown yourself to be incapable of such self-discipline, the demonstration will be carried out on your person. Hold him."

Each of Datvin's burly servants grabbed an arm and bore Chekov down to the tiled floor. One of them was enough to hold him down, kneeling on his chest and pinning his shoulders, while the other accepted something from Datvin and knelt down behind his head.

"Open your mouth." The station manager gave the order as if he was telling him to do something as mundane as opening a door.

Chekov shook his head furiously, squirming under the rib-crushing pressure of the Kibree's weight.

"Please, do as you are told." After waiting a moment to see the order had no effect, Datvin nodded to the first slave, who dug his knee sharply into Chekov's diaphragm. The automatic gasp of breath the ensign took in response was enough to let the second slave insert a thumb each side of his mouth, forcing his jaw open. The thumbs were followed by something else, something with rough, uncomfortable edges that strained the hinges of his jaws to breaking point.

"This," Datvin pointed out calmly, "is merely a form of restraint to prevent you from biting anyone during the procedure that follows. I imagine that you've guessed what happens next."

Chekov could only make the most inarticulate of complaints but he put as much energy into them as he could.

"Doctor?"

The Medical Officer came into view. In his hands was a tool that was unmistakably designed for the purpose of removing tongues. It had scissor handles, but one blade was replaced by a slightly curved piece of metal, about three centimetres long. Another blade sat perpendicular to this one meeting it exactly. The handles were at a right angle to the plane of this arrangement, presumably for ease of insertion into and manipulation within the amputee's mouth. Chekov didn't think he'd ever seen anything so horrible quite this close. The slightly embarrassed expression on the doctor's face did nothing to quell his mounting terror.

"Hold perfectly still," the doctor said, as he applied the tool.

Chekov let out a formless scream. The metal bit into the soft tissue of his tongue as he tried to pull away. The doctor withdrew the instrument again, and Datvin came to kneel down beside his victim. "Next time, he will do it properly."

Chekov's mouth was filling up with blood, in what seemed like a uncontrollable torrent. However, his tongue was still where it should be. He gurgled something, and Datvin signaled the slaves to let him up.

"He's been cut," the doctor pronounced, somewhat redundantly in Chekov's opinion. 

"Fetch a bowl," Datvin ordered one of the servants. "It was not your fault, Doctor. He was told not to struggle."

Chekov thought this was rather a strange way of looking at things as he pulled himself up to sit on the floor, nearly gagging on blood.

"If you make a complaint about this to your master, I will proceed with the accusation of theft. Do you understand?"

Chekov nodded and a large porcelain bowl was deposited on the floor in front of him. He spat a mouthful of blood into it. More blood flowed to take its place. The medical officer seemed a little worried about the volume and color of what was in the bowl.

"Let me have a look. A major vessel may have been cut." He knelt down for a second time at Chekov's side. His face was such a caricature of medical concern that Chekov wanted to scream at him. Instead he spit out another mouthful of blood. He decided pragmatically that there was nothing to be gained by bleeding to death, unless he could do it in front of Sulu. He opened his mouth again, but not very far. The strained joints sent stabbing protests at the movement. 

"No. Just a very good supply to the capillaries. Here…" The doctor took a glob of something out of a tiny container and handed it to him. "Swallow this — very carefully."

Chekov emptied his mouth and did as he was asked. The substance went down easily but had a salty coating that burned the raw cut in his mouth like acid.

"The huymich is not meant to help you," Datvin explained as the ensign frantically tried to rid himself of the burning. "It will serve as our explanation of the laceration on your tongue. As you may have learned in the kitchens, huymich must be carefully de-spined. The contents of your digestive tract will now bear witness that you came across one that was carelessly prepared, resulting, unfortunately, in a bad cut."

"The bleeding should stop within the hour," the Medical Officer advised the Station Manager as he rose. "If it doesn't, or he shows any signs of going into shock, call me immediately."

"Thank you." Datvin dismissed him. As the doctor exited, the Kibree turned his eyes back on Chekov. "I will give you the rest of this hour to contemplate your obstinacy. As you can see, I am quite serious and prepared to make things very uncomfortable for you. All you have to do to stop this is to give me the assistance I require."

Chekov's only answer was to spit more blood into the bowl.

"Very well." Datvin dismissed his servants and crossed back behind his desk.

He didn't speak to the ensign again for almost a half-hour. The Station Manager continued his affairs as if having an ashen-faced Star Fleet officer periodically spitting blood into a bowl on the floor of his immaculate office was normal procedure. 

The only interruption was from the comm unit. Although Chekov could hear only Datvin's half of the conversation, it was obvious that the exchange was accompanied by ill-feeling on both sides.

"Yes, if I must… Director. How can I help you? I'm surprised that you can bring yourself to make such a suggestion… well, that's your problem… It must surely be obvious to you that I have my hands full trying to prevent a complete collapse on the domestic front… I do not exaggerate, madam. He may be persuaded, but I doubt if he can be bought. This is laughable… I couldn't recommend Ffafner to construct a garden privy, let alone a system for maintaining the hygiene of an entire atmosphere… Nonetheless, madam… Very well. Of course, you can rely on my discretion. I do realize that our interests are, in this regard at least, parallel." 

Finally there was a knock on the door and a low-caste clerk entered. "Pardon, Manager, but you're needed in the east wing."

"Very well." Datvin fastidiously put his desk in order then rose. He crossed to Chekov. "You will remain here. If your hour expires before I return, someone will escort you back to your quarters. Do you understand?"

The ensign nodded.

"Aren't you able to speak yet?"

'Not to you, you bastard,' Chekov thought very loudly as he shook his head.

The Station Manager took in a deep breath and frowned. "I hope you see reason before you force me to do something we may both regret."

Chekov spat more blood into the bowl.

"Very well." The sound of the manager's steps echoed up to the doorway then gradually faded after the sound of the closing door.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Chekov made a mental tally of his position. Thus far today he'd been publicly beaten, betrayed by the woman he loved, an attempt had possibly been made on his life, his tongue had almost been surgically removed and he was being blackmailed into breaking the Prime Directive by an important official of the Kibrian government. He was beginning to feel nostalgic for better times, like yesterday, when everyone was merely trying to humiliate or drug him.

He wondered if the events weren't somehow connected. Perhaps Datvin was also the one at the bottom of the incident in the orchard and Kahsheel's attempt to drug Ensign Davies. He remembered that the engineer had also said something about wanting information on 'alien technology'. What could they possibly be so desperate for?

Chekov noted that the flow of blood seemed to be tapering off a little as he spat out the next mouthful.

Maybe he'd been hasty in his refusal. He should at least have tried to find out what Datvin was after. Perhaps it was information they could give away. As Sulu had said, once you started dealing with a culture, the absolutes of the Directive dissolved into a series of compromises. Perhaps what Datvin needed would be permissible, a mere bending of the rules… 

Chekov heard soft footfalls and breathing close at hand. He didn't look up, and after a moment the intruder squatted down in front of him. 

"Brother Chekov?"

It was the magician from the stillroom. Chekov blinked at him. He'd convinced himself that this character was only a peeva hallucination, but here he was, looking very real… Looking like Datvin's most likely source of information on the stolen birds.

"What do you want?" he asked bitterly, and somewhat incomprehensibly. Even though it was still attached, his tongue, and every other part of his mouth, was bruised. Speaking hurt.

"Nothing that you can give me," the Kibree replied enigmatically. He moved the bowl out of the way and Chekov suddenly realized that the bleeding had stopped. "You're worried about what Datvin wants."

Chekov nodded, putting his hand on his aching jaw. "A little."

"He has a son who is just a year old, and suffers from a rare brain tumor. It is inoperable — using Kibrian medical procedures, at least — but it will shrink as the child grows. Eventually it will vanish. In the meantime, though, it causes the child distress and difficulty."

The fact that the pain in his mouth was finally beginning to ease didn't make Chekov feel any more kindly towards Datvin or his informant. "Do you expect me to be sympathetic?"

"In two years time, the child will undergo the Kibrian caste assessment, the Vaytha. He will fail."

Chekov shrugged. "Then perhaps Datvin will be more sympathetic to…"

"Would you condemn a child in order to make its father more sensitive to the sufferings of others?"

"Well, no, of course not…" Chekov felt a resurgence of the uncomfortable guilt he'd experienced last time in this Kibree's presence.

"No, of course not," the conjuror echoed. "Then may I ask what you intend to do about it?"

Chekov shook his head. "I can't…"

"You can. You have medical technology with you, as you allowed the Medical Officer to see, which you could adapt to produce an instrument which he in turn could use to excise the tumor. Is that not so?"

"It is possible, but - our Non-Interference Directive forbids us…"

"I applaud the humility of this Prime Directive of yours, but I disdain its cowardice. To do nothing in fear that you might do harm — would it not be better to do that which will do good?"

Chekov gritted his teeth and summoned up the well-rehearsed arguments. "Situations are usually more complex than they appear. It is not always obvious what is good and what is bad."

"It seems very obvious to me what is good. It is good that this child should be healthy now and happy in the future."

"When it will be his turn to exploit and abuse his fellow Kibree?"

"That is for him to decide." The Kibree rose to his feet. "I put you here to do certain things for me. Don't disappoint me." 

He seemed to be about to leave. Chekov caught hold of his robe to detain him. "You put me here? You mean that you trapped me in an incriminating situation, then informed Datvin about the stolen birds so that I..?"

"No. You told Datvin about the birds. He guessed that you were involved, from what the kitchen staff told him. And he saw the confirmation of it in your face."

"I'm not guilty of anything."

"What a very sweeping statement. I'm afraid I find it hard to believe." He paused. "You know, you will break this Directive tomorrow, one way or another." 

He bowed graciously to the ensign. As he opened the door, and closed it behind him, it occurred to Chekov that he hadn't heard the magician enter in the first place. He dismissed the thought. He'd been in no fit state to notice anything. He reached for the bowl to spit out one last mouthful of blood-tinged saliva and stopped, frozen. The bowl contained nothing but water. 

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"What success?" Driant asked as he entered Kahsheel's bedchamber.

The kiani was sitting in front of her mirror slowly removing her braided jewellery. "None."

"Well…" Her companion sighed and folded his arms. "We still have time…"

"No," Kahsheel said to her unsmiling reflection. "I have no more time. I have come to an end of my usefulness for this cause."

Driant crossed to her, concerned. "What are you saying, Kahsheel?"

"Davies was resistant to my mind control techniques. Worse than that, I found that she was faking being under the influence of the drug."

"And you believe she heard…?"

"She heard enough to raise her suspicions… enough to cause her to ask certain questions of…" Kahsheel found she couldn't bear to say Chekov's name. "…him. If they question him knowing what to ask, he will remember enough to destroy us. I suppose you plan to kill him?"

Driant didn't confirm or deny. "I hope you haven't gotten attached to the alien, Kahsheel."

"Don't drag it down to that level," she admonished him. "I should be the one to kill him. I'm going to have to kill myself any way."

"Kahsheel…" her companion protested softly.

"It is only a matter of time before they expose my part in this. I couldn't stand the humiliation of a public execution, or being reduced to slavery." She took in a deep breath and nodded. "Yes, that is how it must be. His memories will be very sketchy at first. The Federation people will let me take him once more — or even send him to me — to trap me and confirm their suspicions. If I kill us both then, perhaps I can confine our losses and save the lives of other members of our cell."

Driant put a hand on her shoulder. "Oh, Kahsheel…"

"I think poison would be the kindest," she decided. "Get me something that will act quickly — on both of us. It also needs to be odorless and tasteless. He'll be very suspicious now, naturally. See if you can find a Federation drink that he likes and obtain a sufficient quantity of it. That might distract him long enough for our purposes."

"Yes, Kahsheel." Driant pressed a handful of her curls to his lips lovingly. "Someday your sacrifice will make your name immortal

"No." Kahsheel pulled her hair around and began to brush it out. "If I am successful, no one will ever know me as anything but a foolish kiani who lost her head over an alien servant."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"We've got big trouble," Sulu informed Chekov after the clerk who'd delivered him to the lieutenant's door departed.

Chekov sighed as he entered. "And what else is new?"

Davies was sitting on the bed. "Your friend Kahsheel tried to hypnotize me and get me to reveal information on restricted aspects of Federation technology."

"Chekov…" Sulu motioned for him to sit down. "You said earlier that you were having hallucinations. One of them you described as taking tests on the principles behind sonic showers. Is it possible…?"

The memory was very blurry. All Chekov could remember was a computer screen with questions on it. There were also two voices speaking a language he couldn't understand. He'd never stopped to think about it before, but one of the voices was unmistakably Kahsheel's.

"Oh, no," he groaned, sinking down into his chair and covering his face with his hands. It seemed the Kibrian magician was not precognisant, merely well-informed. Under Kahsheel's influence, Chekov had probably already broken the Prime Directive several times over.

"Damn." Sulu's fist hit the wall. "Damn. Damn. Damn."

"We'll need a psycho-tricorder," Davies said sensibly. "Between the drugs and the hypnosis, his memories aren't going to be very accurate."

"Unfortunately our medikit isn't supplied with one." Sulu put his hands on his hips and looked at Chekov. A good I-told-you-so right now would feel nice, but wouldn't do anything to change the situation. "We've got to find out how much she knows and who she's passed the information to."

"She may have nothing," Davies observed. "If she'd been getting satisfaction from Chekov, it's unlikely she'd've gone to such trouble with me."

"We'll just have to see." Sulu blew out a long breath. "Well, we're not going to get anything else done tonight and I need some time to think about this. Everyone try to get some rest. We'll meet here an hour before Chekov is supposed to be in the kitchens tomorrow morning and go over the plan I hope I will come up with between now and then."

"Yes, sir," Davies answered. Chekov merely nodded at the floor.

"Ensign…" Sulu reached out and took Davies by the hands. "Are you going to be all right?"

"Yes." Davies smiled. "Thank you for your attempt to be my knight in shining armor tonight."

"I'm just glad you were already out of there and on your way back," Sulu replied.

Even in the depths of his misery, Chekov could still tell when he was being a third wheel.

"I think I should sleep in my own quarters tonight," he said, deciding not to divulge any of the details of his misadventures with the Station Manager until the morning. He needed some time to sort them out himself, and he didn't really want to talk any more than he could help. "It raises suspicions when I don't use them."

"Chekov, an attempt has possibly been made on your life today," Sulu said. "I want you behind a door with an electronic lock on it tonight."

"Oh, he could stay in my quarters," Davies offered generously.

Sulu blinked at her. "And where would you stay?" he asked pointedly.

"I'm sure I could…" Davies cleared her throat. "…find other accommodations… assuming Mister Chekov prefers to be alone."

"I prefer to be alone," Chekov confirmed, wearily picking up his cue from his fellow ensign. "It has been a very long day."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As if things weren't chaotic enough, the kepir hunt begins...

"Chekov?"

He rolled over in Ensign Davies' bed, trying to remember where he was, and why. He was even more puzzled when the bed's owner came over and sat down beside him, looking very determined about something. He managed to combine sitting up and moving over to the other side of the bed without being too conspicuous about it. "It can't be time to wake up already."

"Lieutenant Sulu wanted us to have a meeting, remember?" Davies handed him a pile of fresh clothing. "And it's already later than he intended."

He remembered the planned meeting, along with all the other memories that had kept him awake until what felt like only half an hour earlier. For once the long Kibrian night hadn't seemed long enough. He unfolded his new livery. Today's color scheme was primarily purple and ochre. "Marvelous."

"Uh, Chekov…" Davies began hesitantly.

"Yes?"

"About last night… in Kahsheel's quarters…"

Chekov prepared himself to accept her apology graciously. "Yes?"

"Nothing happened," she said very firmly, looking him straight in the eye as if daring him to contradict her.

"Yes, I know," he replied dryly. "I was there, if you recall."

"I recall quite well," Davies assured him humorlessly. "All I ask is that we both make sure we don't allow anyone else to believe anything to the contrary."

"Of course." He was puzzled as to what could have prompted such a warning. It would seem that he would have more face to lose over a recounting of last night's events than she would. "I haven't said anything…"

"It wasn't so much what you said to Sulu," Davies interrupted, crossing her arms, "but what you implied that I didn't like."

Certain remarks he'd made in a humorous vein returned to Chekov. He also remembered why it was almost always unpleasant for one's best friend to start dating someone new. "Oh, well… that was…" He swallowed and hoped this wasn't an omen of how the whole day was going to be. "I apologize if anything I said was taken in a manner other than I intended."

"It's hardly a joking matter," Davies said. "I would have thought you'd see that."

"I seem to recall, Miss Davies," Chekov said, crossing his arms and working up some leftover indignation of his own, "last night in Kahsheel's quarters you were the one who was taking the situation rather lightly at my expense."

"And this is your idea of revenge?"

"Certainly not."

They sat staring at each other stubbornly for a few moments. Under normal circumstances they were both very reasonable people. Chekov would have apologized again, and Davies would never have pressed the point to begin with. However, circumstances were not normal and the room was filled with enough excess wounded moral superiority to start a medium-sized crusade.

"Well," Davies sniffed, "if that's the case then I'm just wasting valuable time here."

"I think so," Chekov replied shortly, then gestured her towards the door. "If you'd excuse me for a few moments, Miss Davies."

"Certainly, Mister Chekov." Her boots made a cold click-click-click noise as she crossed the floor to the door.

After he'd washed and dressed, she was waiting for him in the corridor. She escorted him to Sulu's quarters with the sort of cool detachment that would have made a night on the Siberian steppes look cozy in comparison. Johnson was already there, explaining to a very sleepy looking lieutenant something that required the unfolding of several acres of printout.

"Okay, Johnson," Sulu said, rubbing his eyes. "I'll get back to you on this as soon as we figure out what we're going to do about Kahsheel."

"And the fact that someone is trying to kill me," Chekov put in, taking a seat in the chair opposite them.

Sulu looked up at him. Something about the helmsman's aspect telegraphed the message, 'You are in big trouble with me,' to Chekov as clearly as if it had been spoken aloud.

"We don't know if that's really the case," the lieutenant objected in measured tones. "For all we know, it may just have been an accident…"

Chekov didn't care for the fact that the incident had clearly been downgraded in significance overnight. "Mras didn't think so."

"But how far can we trust this Mras person?" Sulu asked. "He may just be a malcontent."

"He has the reputation of being a troublemaker," Davies reported primly, taking a chair adjacent to the helmsman.

"So do I," Chekov reminded her. From the united front they were putting forth, he could tell the two of them had spent far, far too long discussing his shortcomings last night. "I trust Mras."

"But I'm not sure you're being objective," Sulu said flatly.

Chekov could hardly believe his ears. It would seem that Datvin's predictions of Sulu's reactions were exactly on target. "You're not going to do anything…?" 

"Look, Chekov, the guy wasn't nearly killed, he was just badly cut. Nothing worse would have happened to you. I realize this is not a pleasant situation for you to be in, but as I explained yesterday, it's really not in anyone's interests for anything serious to happen to you." Despite the fact that Sulu had resolved to take the upper hand in matters today, he still had to pause and clear his throat before he got to the part he knew Chekov wasn't going to like. "I've decided to talk to Gebain about keeping a closer eye on you. That should put him on the spot if anything does happen…" He paused slightly to wait for the inevitable outburst. When it didn't come, he continued, "And if you just do what you're supposed to do, that shouldn't be a problem…"

Sulu decided that even the most sarcastic objection Chekov could come up with would be more respectful and preferable to the ensign's continued accusing silence.

"That doesn't seem like an adequate safeguard to me…"

Sulu turned to check that his ears weren't deceiving him. However, this comment really had come from Johnson.

The meteorologist had a very determined look in his pale blue eyes. "Well, sir, we don't seem to be particularly competent at judging the native interest in any given situation. If I understand correctly, the case with Kahsheel is a good demonstration of this. We assumed that her interest in Mister Chekov was simply… uhm, social in nature. We never considered that she might have any other motivation. Isn't it possible, given a goal that is sufficiently important, that Gebain might be prepared to take unusual risks?"

Something about Johnson's use of the first person plural irritated Sulu. It might have merely been an attempt to sound less as if he was directing criticism at his superior, but the effect was more that of a nurse reasoning with a rather slow and uncooperative patient. 

Nevertheless, the ensign had a point. 

"The Kibrians have always displayed a good amount of curiosity about Federation technology, but Kahsheel's attempt to gain access to restricted technical information by stealth is unprecedented," Sulu reasoned aloud. "Up to this point the Kibree have taken a rather high-and-mighty approach to their dealings with the Federation. Sort of, if we won't accept them as they are, they'll manage perfectly well without us. It's possible that the majority of Kibree still feel that way. Kahsheel could be a disgruntled or avaricious individual working for herself. She could also be part of a subversive or splinter group unwilling to accept the restrictions of the Prime Directive. We also need to consider the possibility that the official 'sour grapes' attitude is a sham, the Kibrians have developed a need for information we will not give them under the Prime Directive and Kahsheel's plot was sanctioned by governmental authorities." He stopped, not sure where to go with any of these speculations.

"In none of those cases, though, would a suggestion for increased supervision by Gebain put Mister Chekov's life at risk," Davies pointed out. "If the major domo is part of some sort of plot, Mister Sulu's not sanctioning him to do anything he doesn't already have the power to do. If he's just an innocent bystander, the suggestion might alert him to the possibility that he's being used."

"What do you think, Chekov?"

Chekov felt like a rabbit mistakenly invited to a discussion of the length of the hunting season. He knew that regardless of Gebain's political affiliations, the most immediate upshot of such a suggestion in any case would be that the ensign could kiss the remaining flesh on his posterior goodbye. He wondered if this was Ensign Davies' idea of revenge for revealing too many details of yesterday's little adventure.

"Excuse me, Mister Chekov," Sulu said, his patience wearing audibly thin, "but I asked you a question. I expect a response."

Chekov took a second to look hurt by this before he shook his head and shifted his eyes to the floor. "I don't have any answers, Lieutenant."

"Well, if one of us had a pipeline to the truth about the situation," Davies said with false lightness, "then there wouldn't be much point having a discussion at all, would there?"

"Is there any particular individual or group you feel represents a threat to you, Chekov?" Sulu said, smoothly cutting in before the look the navigator gave his fellow ensign could become words they'd all regret.

Chekov mentally put Angharad Davies at the top of his list, but moved seamlessly onto number two. "Gebain took a bribe to make sure that I was at Kahsheel's disposal last night… and possibly another time she arranged to see me." Chekov hurried over the last without allowing time for anyone to think about it too deeply. "He also assigned me to the scene of the… 'accident' in the orchard. During the hour and a half I am assigned to his work detail, he can see to it that I am anywhere in the station doing virtually anything. His cooperation has been essential in seeing that I was at certain places at certain times."

"If he's being bribed that sounds like he's not a direct member of whatever conspiracy there may be," Sulu reasoned. "Add the incentive of some extra income to the fact that he doesn't seem to like you very much and that could well be sufficient motivation for him to make a deal with someone to let you out of the kitchen for a while. What about Datvin?"

"The Station Manager and the Medical Officer are anxious to obtain certain medical technology. They have threatened me in an attempt to persuade me to give it to them. However, if they kill me, they have little hope of obtaining the information. Therefore I am reasonably sure they won't carry it that far." Chekov watched with satisfaction as Sulu paled in response to this revelation. "The other trivial discomforts of my situation are of course unimportant."

Despite the sarcasm that he could barely keep out of his voice, Chekov was reassured by his own analysis of the situation. It really didn't make sense that anyone was trying to kill him.

"What medical technology?" Sulu asked.

"Micro-transporter devices for brain surgery."

"We don't have anything like that…"

"We have a Hamilton scalpel," Johnson interrupted. 

Sulu frowned at him before remembering that the meteorologist was also the team's paramedic. He'd have a better idea of what the medikit contained than anyone else. 

"It's designed for removing blockages - blood clots, bone fragments. In a first aid situation, you use it when people are choking, or for removing bullets, for example. You don't have to enlarge the wound."

"I remember." Sulu turned to Chekov accusingly. "I think there's a wonderfully self-explanatory picture on its box inside the kit. Why didn't you tell me this last night?"

"Because Datvin told me that if I did he'd have my tongue removed," Chekov replied grimly. It wasn't a completely accurate statement, but it did have a very satisfactory effect on his listeners.

Except for Davies, who snorted and muttered, "Yet more support for the old saying about great minds thinking alike."

"Davies," Sulu warned.

"Are you serious?" Johnson asked Chekov.

The navigator nodded. "Very."

"It is a legally sanctioned punishment," Sulu conceded. "But it's like I told you yesterday, Chekov, as long as you're considered my property, people can't just do things to you. You'd have to be taken before a magistrate and convicted of something before anyone could do something like that to you."

"Mister Datvin is well aware of the law," Chekov replied. "He knows how to use it to his advantage. And he believes that you can be maneuvered into agreeing with anything the administration tells you to do."

"Does he?" Sulu smiled tightly. "Then he doesn't know me very well."

"Lieutenant," Chekov continued seriously, "as long as Datvin believes I might cooperate, he needs me alive. If he finds out I've told even this much to you, I'm useless… and perhaps dead."

"I see. Do you think he's the one behind Kahsheel?"

"I don't know. He used a very different approach to obtaining information," Chekov replied ruefully. "I do know that his particular need is a personal matter involving his son."

"He told you that?"

"No. I was informed by…" Chekov realized too late that the conjurer's part in last night's incident was going to be hard to explain. "…by a third party."

"Does this third party have a name?" Sulu prompted.

"I don't know," Chekov answered honestly.

"A slave?"

"I don't think so."

"What was this person's interest in Datvin's affairs?"

"I don't know."

"You mean to say some Kibree just popped in out of the blue and explained to you all about the Station Manager's problems for no apparent reason?" Davies asked, making the encounter sound almost as implausible as it actually was.

"Well, yes."

"All right." Sulu's voice made it clear that he was suspending judgement. "I'll do some very discrete investigating and see if I can confirm this and come up with a way to get Datvin off your back. That still leaves us with Kahsheel…"

"With respect, Lieutenant, it's spilt milk, isn't it?" Johnson suggested when Chekov didn't respond immediately. "Since we know what she's up to, she's no longer a threat."

"The problem is, Johnson, we don't know exactly what she was up to," Sulu replied. "If the political situation here is more unstable than we've been led to believe, or if there's a strong subversive faction that might be vulnerable to outside manipulation, the Federation needs to know about it. Also we need to find out exactly what information she obtained so we'll know what kind of damage control we'll need to do. After we find out what she's uncovered, it will be necessary to review the list of information already available to the Kibree, so we can make sure they still won't be able to put two and two together and come up with a wholesale photon torpedo factory. Johnson, you'll put together that list of unrestricted technology for us."

"Yes, sir."

"You're also going to have to help us get back into Kahsheel's confidence," Sulu said, coming to the part of his plan that he didn't particularly like. "She and I are not on particularly good terms and she'll be suspicious of anything coming from Davies. That's why I want you to…"

"You don't mean for Johnson to… to…" Chekov burst out, appalled. Kahsheel might be using him, but she was still his… his… well, his.

"As I was saying, Johnson," Sulu continued over him. "That's why I'll want you to approach Kahsheel. Tell her that Chekov is desperate to see her and I've forbidden it, but let her know that you're sympathetic and would be willing to arrange a rendezvous sometime today or tonight — in your quarters or Chekov's would be best, but in her rooms if she insists. And, Johnson, you've got to be subtle about this. Do you understand me? Very, very subtle."

Sulu watched as the meteorologist picked through his mental dictionary, blew the dust off the unused page, and downloaded the meaning of this new concept. "Yes, Lieutenant."

"Chekov, be very careful," Sulu cautioned, turning to him. "If she knows we're on to her, there's no knowing what she may try. Above all else, don't let her drug you or put you under again."

"Don't worry," Davies assured him. "He's a very convincing actor."

"I suggest…" Sulu cut in quickly, "…that you tell her you're alarmed about the attack on you…"

"I thought it was just an accident," Chekov said diffidently.

Sulu didn't say anything, but his silence had exactly the ensign shriveling qualities for which James T Kirk was notorious throughout Star Fleet. "…and appeal to her for help, or advice. Then we'll see what she wants in return. Davies, you and I will work on coming up with an inconspicuous but reliable set up to wire Chekov for sound…"

"You're… you're… going to be listening?" Chekov stammered, immediately thinking of the sort of sounds that had accompanied his other encounters with Kahsheel.

Sulu nodded. "I think that's the safest route. That way we'll still be covered even if she is able to trick you or drug you."

"But audio is so ambiguous…" the person in the room with the second best idea of what went on behind the closed doors of Kahsheel's bedchamber said with an innocent smile on her face. "It wouldn't be that much more trouble to rig a miniature video scanner…"

Any carnage that would have probably ensued was interrupted by the sound of the room's time-keeping device softly announcing the start of the so-called blue hour before breakfast. Navigator and helmsman looked into each other's eyes and simultaneously reached the same horrible conclusion.

"Oh, my God!" Chekov's heart leapt into his throat as he dove for the door closely followed by Sulu. "I'm late!"

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

>

"Wait." Sulu restrained Chekov from entering the kitchens with a hand on his shoulder. "Let him come to us. Trust me. It's a power thing."

The ensign gave his superior a questioning look as he tried to catch his breath. They'd jogged through uninhabited corridors and walked at a near run the rest of the way. Despite the good time they'd made, Gebain had already moved from his regular post at the kitchen door. In contrast to the way things had been every other morning, the big black door to the kitchen stood open. The major domo was inside, directly supervising his charges.

"This place doesn't look so bad," Sulu commented.

Unfortunately, the kitchens were less noisy and crowded than usual this morning. The rooms were also noticeably cooler. There was a great deal of atypically energetic scrubbing and polishing going on. All visible surfaces seemed to have — or be in the process of obtaining — a clean and happy glow.

"It's not the way it looks that makes the place unpleasant," Chekov informed him, straightening the collar of his livery. "It isn't too difficult to induce the resident slave labor force to achieve a quite cheerful effect — with the proper encouragement."

As another manifestation of unusual goings on in slag hall, no shining examples of the usual mistreatment of personnel emerged to prove his point. Chekov was very sorry that Sulu wasn't going to be around to see the undoubtedly spectacular specimen of disciplinary treatment that was going to be meted out to the ensign himself shortly after the lieutenant's departure. "Mister Sulu, please consider delaying speaking to Gebain until later. At lunch would still achieve the same effect."

"Don't worry about being late," Sulu said, keeping both eyes on the major domo, who was deep in conversation with one of the few low caste cooks in the room. "I'm going to handle that."

"How?" Chekov also didn't dare take his eyes off Gebain.

"I'll tell him it was all my fault."

"Oh, God," Chekov groaned.

"C'mon. I think you're being paranoid about this guy. He's only doing his job."

"Excuse me, Lieutenant," the ensign said testily. "But do you mean to say 'I think,' or 'We think'?"

Sulu shot him a quick, sidelong glance. "If that's meant as some sort of crack about Davies…"

"No matter what you may say about the relative assertiveness of the women I'm attracted to," Chekov interrupted, staring straight ahead, "at least I don't immediately tell them everything you've ever said about them in their absence as soon as I start a relationship."

"What are you talking about?"

"In the present case, I'm referring to some easily misconstrued remarks I made last night about my misadventures with Ensign Davies. Last time it was an unfortunate speculation I made about the possible artificiality of Yeoman Carouso's hair color. The time before that it was a comment about Lieutenant Healy's weight…"

"Which reminds me…" Sulu quietly said over him. "I think you took advantage of the situation between the two of you in Kahsheel's quarters."

This time it was the ensign's turn to take a quick look at his companion. "Davies said that?"

"No. Ensign Davies gave me her report on what transpired. I think you took advantage of the situation."

"I took advantage?" Chekov asked incredulously. "Did she happen to mention that I was handcuffed and simulating a peeva induced stupor at the time?"

"You know what you did," Sulu said, quietly accusing.

"I'm beginning to wonder if I do."

"Ah, Mister Sulu…" Gebain had finally noticed them. The smile on the big Kibree's face as he moved towards them couldn't have looked any more artificial to Chekov if it had been painted on. "So you had a little delay this morning?"

"Yes." From his response, the lieutenant didn't seem to have noticed. "But it was entirely my fault. Chekov was not at all to blame."

"Of course not." The major domo's hand landed heavily on the ensign's shoulder as the Kibree firmly drew him into his realm of power. "Don't think any more of it. He's here in plenty of time."

"Mister Gebain…" Sulu gave his fellow officer an encouraging smile that revealed how thoroughly he was being duped. "If I could have a word with you…?"

"Certainly, Mister Sulu." The Kibree guided Chekov into the kitchen proper with a tiny little shove that silently communicated the promise of untold amounts of unpleasantness to come. "I'll just have your servant go ahead and start scrubbing oven trays — if you don't mind, sir — since he is starting out a little late."

"Oh, no. Of course."

Chekov amused himself as he walked over to the sluice and picked up a brush by speculating on what form his punishment was going to take. Would it be a long and humiliating one, or quick and painful? Or perhaps, long and painful, or quick and humiliating? Or simply long, humiliating and painful? Perhaps he would be punished separately for each minute he was tardy… The possibilities were endless.

"Su, Feddie," a familiar voice said, delivering more trays to be cleaned. "The kibbie-eyed one finds it hard to be parting with you this morn."

"What's going on, Dollu?" he asked softly, checking on the progress of the lieutenant's inaudible conversation with Gebain out of the corner of his eye. "Where is everyone? Why isn't anyone cooking?"

The green-skinned woman grinned through her ragged teeth. "Kepir hunt today, Feddie."

"And just what does that mean for us?"

"Hard work now." Dollu smiled. Out of the possible line of sight of Gebain and Sulu, the Kibrian servant ran a caressing hand down from the small of Chekov's back to the middle of his thigh. "Good things to come."

"Move on, mort." One of the few patrolling low caste cooks came between them before the ensign had time to react to this rather unexpected forwardness. Under the cover of inspecting Chekov's work, the low caste gave Dolly a discrete shove back towards the kitchen. "If there's anything left of that part of the Feddie after Gebain gets done with him, you'll have your chance at it later."

Rather than taking this correction in the fearfully respectful and silent way she usually reacted to comments by her superiors, Dollu giggled appreciatively as she made her exit.

"Make the most of the day, Feddie," the low caste advised, giving him a friendly pat on the same, apparently doomed, part of his anatomy.

Chekov was scouting about for a way he could complete this job with his back to the wall when his eyes suddenly met Gebain's. Sulu had left without fanfare and now whatever fate awaited the ensign was crossing the room towards him on big blue feet. Chekov swallowed hard as the Kibree drew near to him… then unexpectedly passed him by. Sneaking a glance over his shoulder, he saw the major domo continue on into the inner kitchens without sparing him so much as a backward glance. Sulu must have come up with a very convincing story about his tardiness.

Almost unable to believe his good fortune, Chekov applied himself to his task and kept a sharp eye out for an easier job to move to when he finished.

Like all things that seemed too good to be true, his reprieve suddenly evaporated a few moments later when a large blue hand settled on his shoulder. "Don't you have something to say to me?"

"Yes, Mister Gebain." Chekov swallowed hard and decided to put plan B into action. "I apologize for not being on time this morning."

Gebain turned him around. "And who's fault was that?"

Sulu's name died on his lips when he saw the look in the Kibree's eyes. "Mine."

"I'm glad you understand that." Grasping a handful of the back of the ensign's tunic, Gebain steered him in the direction of the tables. "Your master is not pleased with the quantity or quality of supervision you are receiving here. He's alarmed by the frequency with which you seem to find yourself in hazardous or difficult situations."

"Oh, really?" Chekov asked politely as the Kibree pulled the end of one bench out from under the table.

"And who's fault actually is it that you can't seem to stay out of trouble?" Gebain asked sweetly as he firmly sat the ensign down on the bench.

"Mine?" Chekov guessed.

"Very good." The Kibree patted him on the head a good deal less than gently. "Up to this point, I've tried to treat you like any other servant in the hall, but now it seems quite clear that you require special treatment."

Chekov flinched at the very sound of the words. "Mister Gebain…" he began reasonably.

"Oh?" The major domo crossed his arms. "Does this mean that your master has given you permission to argue with me?"

"No, sir. I…"

"That's what I thought." Gebain turned and motioned to someone in the inner kitchens. "Since my responsibilities dictate that I cannot personally supervise you the entire time that you are here, I will delegate that task to my subordinates. I think you know Bolse…"

The superstitious low caste that Chekov had had a run in with the previous day emerged from the inner kitchen, grinning and carrying a large bowl.

"He will be personally in charge of seeing that you eat your meals."

The cook clanked a platter of greenish-brown gruel decorated with half-burnt pieces of bread crust down in front of the ensign.

Chekov couldn't help but make a face at the unappetizing mess. "But I usually…"

"From what I understand," Gebain interrupted, "you usually either skip the meal entirely or give away most of your portion. This is distressing both to your owner and to me. It is his expressed wish that you be properly fed and I am concerned that it is your skipping meals that prompts you to beg or steal food from the kianis… an activity that while it has thus far gone unpunished, has not, I assure you, gone unnoticed."

"Oh." Chekov swallowed hard and looked again at the gruel in front of him. "I see."

Thus persuaded, he didn't know how to begin. There didn't seem to be a utensil. Bolse helped him out of this difficulty. The low caste took the scrub brush the ensign was still clutching from his hand and replaced it with a piece of bread crust. The crust was dipped in the gruel.

"There you go, Feddie," Bolse said, merrily patting him on the back. "You've got three minutes to choke all of it down that you can… then I get to feed the rest of it to you."

As he raised the lumpy mass to his lips, Chekov recognized it. It was something usually served hot, now stone-cold. He decided to make one last appeal. "Mister Gebain…"

"Not three minutes, Bolse," Gebain instructed his underling before moving on to other tasks. "I think two minutes should be sufficient."

"Yes, sir!" Bolse grinned. "Two minutes, Feddie. Starting now."

Chekov almost spat his first mouthful back out. "Oh, God…"

"Not exactly the kind of food you ate when you were a kiani, is it, Feddie?" the low-caste asked sympathetically. "I suspect you'll leave a lot, won't you?"

"Could I have something to drink?" Chekov asked, after forcing down another mouthful.

"Sure," Bolse said generously. "After you're done, I'll put your head in the sluice."

A very, very choice phrase in his native tongue sprang to Chekov's mind as he chewed on another lumpy, gooey mouthful of gloop.

"Go ahead, Feddie," Bolse invited him. "Waste all your time putting Feddie curses on me. It will just make my part of this all the more pleasant."

Upon reflection, the ensign decided he could eat a little faster than he was presently.

"Don't let that bread slow you down," the low-caste advised him. "I'm probably going to be feeding it to you by the handful anyway."

Chekov experimented to see if he could make better time by taking smaller amounts and swallowing them whole.

"I've not decided though." Bolse crossed his arms contemplatively. "I mean, I just have to see that you eat it. It doesn't have to be done in any one particular way. I could tie your hands behind your back and hold your head in it…"

Chekov determined that the bread was definitely slowing him down. He could manage much better with his fingers… which suddenly didn't seem nearly as dirty or greasy as they had a moment ago.

"…Or there's a long tube in the still room… I could just tie you to the table and…"

"Mras!" Gebain's deep voice bawled out from across the room. "Where have you been?"

"Sweeping out the workshops, sir."

Without slackening his pace of consumption, Chekov was able to look up and see the huge blue Kibree advance on the dwarf.

"And what have you been stealing this time?"

Although he humbly bowed his head to the approaching kitchen supervisor, the dwarf held his ground. "Nothing, sir. I wouldn't, would I? Not today."

"No." The major domo made a slow circle around the little Kibree. Just when Chekov thought the confrontation might be over, Gebain reached out and grabbed a handful of the dwarf's beard. "Not today, since you wouldn't want to be too sore to bend over and pick up your share of the catch, right? Or are you just hoping that I'll think that and not look too carefully?"

"I'm not that cunning, sir," Mras answered between painfully clenched teeth.

"No, you're not." The major domo pulled the ginger strands of Mras' beard tortuously skyward. "But I think you're that stupid, aren't you?" 

There was no reply.

"All right." After giving him a final shake, the big Kibree released the dwarf. "Take off your shirt."

The dwarf slumped defeatedly, losing a couple of inches he could ill afford. Under his tattered grey work clothes, he must have had about two hundred metres of thin wire wrapped around his body. Gebain held out his hand and the little man slowly found the end of the wire and handed it over. The whole kitchen had stopped work to watch.

"What fried-in-the-noon-sun brainstorm possessed you, you stinking little maggot? What were you planning to do with it? What use is this to you?"

The dwarf pointed at Chekov. "I nabbed it for the Feddie."

The kitchen, which had been very quiet before, went deadly silent. A piece of goop-coated bread crust dropped out of Chekov's suddenly numb fingers as he stared open-mouthed at his Kibree accuser. 

Gebain was plainly intrigued by this unexpected development. "Why, thumbkin?" 

"He asked."

"I did not." If Mras was going to use him to try to wriggle out of trouble, Chekov didn't see why he shouldn't exhibit the same degree of self interest.

"He did," the dwarf insisted traitorously. "Several took sight of him."

"The Feddie did," Mras' tall, dark-skinned friend confirmed. "I took hearing of it."

"Su, he did," another chimed in.

"The Feddie put him to it, sir."

Suddenly it seemed that everyone wanted to give their personal account of Chekov's fictitious transgression.

"Why?" Gebain asked and the room fell quiet again. 

It occurred to Chekov that his disgust with the Kibree should be spread around a little more evenly. Maybe low and high caste deserved each other. 

The silence persisted as Gebain unwound the wire from the dwarf as if he were a spool of thread, pulling it up vertically and gathering it into untidy handfuls.

A woman giggled incongruously. It was Dollu.

"Pardon, sir," she said, "but the Feddie's not so slidely with slaggish speech. Maybe he asked for chew, and Mras took hearing he asked for wire."

Even to Chekov's ears the Kibrian pun was obvious. In the face of so many other betrayals, he appreciated his friend's loyalty… but he wasn't sure that particular alternative explanation was going to do him much good either.

Predictably Gebain motioned that the ensign be escorted over to join what was shaping up to be a rather nasty little scene. Bolse was only too happy to comply.

"Asking for peeva, were you?" the Kibree asked as the low caste dragged Chekov forward by one arm. "I thought you would have learned how much that displeases your master. Don't you remember the lesson you had yesterday morning?"

"Mister Gebain." Chekov switched to Standard for emphasis. "On my honor as a Starfleet officer, none of what they are saying about me is true."

"Most impressive, Mister Chekov," Gebain answered in Standard, then continued in Kibrian, "but you aren't an officer. You are an irresponsible, lying thieving, hard-headed, trouble making kitchen slag. And if you speak out of turn again or address me in any language other than the one I am speaking now…" The major domo held out his hand and snapped his fingers. One of his underlings obligingly supplied him with one of the long, very solid-looking wooden paddles they used to stir gruel. "do I make myself clear, Property of Sulu?"

"Yes, sir," Chekov answered in Kibrian. "Very clear."

"As for you, Mras…"

The dwarf, looking even more grotesque than usual, half naked with a screw thread marked round his torso where he'd coiled the wire tight, lowered his eyes and waited to see what fate would deal him. His arm was still neatly bandaged, but Gebain didn't seem to feel that required any more comment than it had the day before. As angry as Chekov was with Mras' cynical behavior, he found himself praying that the party atmosphere of the kepir hunt would extend to a little mercy for the slave. 

"Why wire?" Gebain asked. "If you go the risk of being caught, why not steal something worthwhile? Or is your brain as small as the rest of your equipment?" 

The dwarf shrugged unhappily. "The Feddie takes knowledge of electric things. I took idea, he knew what he wanted."

Chekov bit his lip to keep himself from contributing another unwanted denial as Gebain looked suspiciously back and forth between the two of them. At length the major domo tossed the bundle of wire back to the dwarf. "Go and put it back where you found it. And don't let me catch you stealing again."

Chekov let out his breath as the dwarf scooped up his shirt from the floor and marched away with it.

"Get back to work," Gebain shouted at the staring mob. "We've wasted enough time."

Chekov turned, almost grateful to be returning to the task of choking down gruel with only the prospect of forced-feeding awaiting him.

"Not you."

The ensign didn't need to hear a name attached to this command to know it was intended for him. He immediately noticed that the stir paddle had not been returned to its proper place.

"So," Gebain said, propping it against his foot. "What were you going to do with the wire?"

"Respectfully, sir," Chekov answered carefully, "I didn't ask for any wire."

"Then it was peeva." Gebain shook his head. "Your master is going to be most disappointed when I tell him. After the way you embarrassed him in front of the Station Director, you'll probably be lucky to get off with twelve this time."

Chekov refused to let himself even consider this possibility. "With all respect, sir, I did not ask Mras for anything. This is all some sort of misunderstanding."

Gebain gave him a long, hard look. The ensign met it as resolutely. After a moment, the Kibree reached out and grabbed him by the front of his tunic.

"You annoy me," he said, pulling him in and slightly up. "You are a disruptive influence."

Chekov winced as he tried to balance on his toes. Gebain had grabbed a fold of skin along with the material. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Sorry isn't enough," the Kibree informed him grimly. "They don't need your encouragement to thieve and make trouble and I don't need this kind of aggravation After yesterday morning I expected your behavior to improve, but it hasn't. Maybe you don't remember what I taught you?"

"Yes, sir," Chekov assured him. "I remember vividly."

"Maybe I need to refresh your memory?"

"No, sir, Mister Gebain."

"Do you know how we punish know-it-all servants down here when those finicky kiani aren't around?" Gebain pulled him towards the hand that was holding the four-foot long paddle "Do you see this?"

It was hard not to. "Yes, Mister Gebain."

"Slaves who annoy me get twenty strokes with one of these — not six with a lightweight cane. Usually, I have them stripped first."

Chekov swallowed hard and wished he'd stayed on Earth and become a chemical engineer like his mother had wanted him to.

"Isn't there anything you want to say to me?" Gebain prompted.

The Kibree clearly wanted a confession. Unfortunately the ensign didn't have one to give.

"I'm not lying, sir," he insisted. "I did not ask anyone to steal anything."

The Kibree didn't look convinced, even though he did release him. "Go on," he ordered, shoving him back towards Bolse. "Get back to what you were doing."

Chekov felt very fortunate as he headed back towards his bowl of gruel. He was about to offer thanks to the powers that be when he was stopped by Bolse's hand on his shoulder.

"Mister Gebain," the low-caste called as he turned the ensign back around. "Isn't he forgetting something?"

"Forgetting something?" Chekov repeated blankly. At least this time the paddle had gone from the major domo's hand.

Gebain looked puzzled too for a second, then smiled.

"Yes," he said, coming forward and taking the ensign by his free arm. "He did forget something, didn't he?"

"I don't understand," Chekov protested. "What did I forget?"

"You forgot to thank Mister Gebain for being so lenient with you," Bolse prompted, handing the supervisor the scrub brush that Chekov had abandoned. "A shocking display of ingratitude, Feddie."

"But, I…"

"So disappointing, after I've been so indulgent with you." Gebain smiled as he turned the brush backwards. "I guess you'll have to have a little lesson in proper behavior after all." 

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

>

Sulu sipped politely at the glass of fruit juice the servant girl had given him. As his eyes followed her, he idly wondered how she coped with the indignities of her social status. While he watched, one of the kiani stretched out a hand and nipped the pleasing curve of her buttock between finger and thumb. The servant stoically moved herself away from the unwanted attention. Undaunted, the kiani followed up by catching her sleeve and yanking her back towards herself.

Uyal, who had apparently been absorbed in his conversation with the Starfleet officers, took three swift strides towards the offender. "Niima, hands off, if you please. She's mine."

Niima nodded apologetically and backed away from the object of contention. "My sincerest repentance, Uyal. I didn't know."

Sulu downed the rest of the glass, sickened that the girl was dependent on the likes of Uyal to protect her, presumably at a price. 

The kiani returned, obviously considering the matter closed. "We could use a thermal exchanger to power that particular mechanism, but it would require…"

The lieutenant put his scruples back on hold and continued to talk shop with the kiani engineer. A fragment of his attention was on Johnson who was mingling with kiani across the room on the lookout for Kahsheel. She had yet to put in an appearance. For some reason, breakfast was a buffet served in the courtyard this morning. The sun was still low and gentle and as the air warmed it was becoming fragrant with a blossom he didn't recognize. It was such a damn shame they couldn't just relax and enjoy it…

"Sulu." Davies discreetly tapped on his arm. "We have a problem."

He looked up in time to see Chekov backing away, red-faced, from two laughing kiani.

"Excuse me…" Sulu moved away without waiting for any acknowledgement from Uyal. Although the lieutenant was halfway across the courtyard in a few quick strides, the kiani had enough time to back Chekov up against a wall, holding his empty tray in front of him like a shield. "Pardon me, ladies," he called, motioning the ensign towards him, "but I need to speak with my servant."

"Of course, Lieutenant," one of the pair answered, batting her eyelashes at him innocently. "I don't know how we could have forgotten he was yours."

Chekov shot a murderous look after them as the two departed giggling to seek out their next victim.

"Calm down, Ensign," Sulu advised him quietly, gently turning him in the opposite direction. "Count to ten."

"One…" Chekov said between clenched teeth as he collected an empty glass from the small ledge running the length of the wall facing the courtyard. "Two…"

"What's gotten into these people today?" Sulu asked, looking over his shoulder at yet another repetition of the same sort of incident taking place across the way.

"I have no idea," Chekov replied, collecting another glass. "Three… The kepir hunt, perhaps."

"And what does that entail?"

"I don't know. Four… But they all seem to have grown an extra set of hands for the occasion."

"Hmm…" The disturbance across the courtyard was also broken up peacefully. There seemed to be some sort of playful suspension of the normal rules of behavior in effect. Sulu wished he knew why. He also wished there weren't so many pairs of eyes casting openly covetous glances at his property. "Try to keep your head, Chekov. If anyone makes a move on you, let me be the one to break it up."

Chekov's voice sounded dubious as he collected the next empty. "Five…"

Sulu put his hands on his hips. "It looks like they're playing some kind of game where everyone has to go around reminding everyone who belongs to who."

"Wonderful. Six…"

"Uh, Chekov, if I end up doing anything sort of drastic…"

"Drastic? You mean more drastic than having your signature burned into my hand and your name embroidered onto all my clothes?"

"Look, just try to take anything that happens in context, okay?"

"Seven…" The ensign made no promise as he picked up the next glass. "Eight…"

"Incidentally, how did things go with Gebain this morning?"

"Marvelously. Nine…"

Sulu sighed disbelievingly. "Don't tell me he beat you."

"Oh, no," Chekov assured him, straightening the glasses on his tray.

"Good."

"A beating," the ensign informed him, "apparently involves being struck around twenty times with a piece of wood longer than one of my legs while in a state of undress. What I received was just a few unofficial whacks with the flat side of a scrub brush to remind me of my relative lack of status in Kibrian culture."

"That bastard," Sulu swore. "I can't believe he beat you for being late."

"He didn't," the ensign said. "I was… corrected for not being sufficiently grateful for not being beaten."

"That son of a bitch…"

"How did you persuade him not to take any action against me for being late?" Chekov asked curiously.

Sulu shrugged. "I bribed him."

"Not a bad idea." The ensign nodded approvingly as he picked up the tenth glass and balanced it on his tray. "But next time, Mister Sulu," he advised before turning to leave, "offer him a little more money."

Sulu sighed and shook his head as he returned to his companions. Johnson had rejoined the group. "Excuse me, Uyal, but would you mind telling me what's going on?"

The kiani looked at him blankly. "Breakfast, I think."

Indeed, that was all that seemed to be happening. As the ratio of servants to kiani temporarily decreased to a bare minimum, things went back to normal.

"No, I mean…" Sulu suddenly felt that he might have hallucinated the whole thing. "It just seems like some people are being a little free with their hands today."

"On the day of the kepir hunt, everyone is allowed a little leeway," the kiani explained. "People do things that are normally out of bounds."

"Oh." This was not good news. "Can you ask people not to do things that are normally out of bounds?"

"Of course. For instance, if you don't want your servant pawed, all you need to do is make it clear that you have a prior claim."

"What more do I have to do? Everyone knows I own him. It's not exactly a secret."

"If you'll forgive me for being frank, Lieutenant, many of us are quite puzzled about your relationship with your servant. You seem terribly jealous, but at the same time you declare that you have no sexual interest in him. And it's an open secret that there is a certain kiani who seems to have unrestricted access to him…"

"Well, I… uh…"

"I suggest that you take advantage of the next opportunity that arises to clear up any ambiguity," Uyal said more firmly than he was usually wont to.

Sulu was surprised that the kiani seemed to care about this. Uyal didn't usually seem to care about anything. "I'll try."

The conversation hit a definite lull.

"Johnson had just made an interesting point about Kibrian heat exchange theory," Davies broke in helpfully. "Hadn't you?"

"Oh, I don't know if it was that interesting," Johnson said modestly. "I was simply pointing out the differing epistemological biases that exist in the Kibrian formulation of scientific methodology versus the classical Vulcan approach to questions of…"

Sulu continued to nod as if he were attending to the meteorologist, but his mind was hard at work trying to come up with something unambiguous yet inoffensive that he could do to keep the Kibree away from Chekov. A straightforward statement from Uyal had seemed to suffice, so he'd start with that. And if it didn't work, a dozen simple gestures immediately came to mind that would demonstrate his ownership; and undoubtedly make the Russian see red. This wasn't going to be easy…

Laughter broke into what had become a rather earnest atmosphere. Sulu looked up to see what had caused it. A group of servants had entered the room with trays to replenish the tables. Among them was Chekov. The kiani turned as one body towards the new arrivals and helped themselves to glasses from the trays of drinks. 

One, a tall Kibree with an ochre complexion that made Sulu want to summon a liver specialist, took Chekov's near empty tray and put it down one-handed on a nearby table. The other hand had a grip on the ensign's forearm. Sulu tensed to move, but there was nothing overtly sexual about the kiani's manner. Perhaps Chekov had done something to annoy him… No, the kiani was smiling and talking to his friends. He gestured at the ensign as if using him to illustrate a point. Sulu wished he could hear what was going on. Chekov seemed to be keeping his cool. He was standing there like so much statuary. He didn't move… even when the kiani started to unfasten the front of his shirt. 

"Oh, no." Sulu moved past Uyal and Davies in the most direct route to Chekov. "Excuse me, again." 

The kiani loosed the final wooden button and pulled robe and shirt aside. He seemed to be making comments of a personal nature about the ensign to general agreement from his circle of friends. Then he put one hand on the back of Chekov's neck, one finger under his chin, tipped his face up from its proper downward orientation and bent down as if to kiss him. He stopped only to answer a question from one of the group of interested observers.

"Chekov!" Sulu tried to put enough snap into his voice to get attention without sounding as if the situation bothered him. 

The kiani released his victim with a slow casualness that was oxygen on the flames of Sulu's outrage. Chekov didn't move at first, then he pulled his shirt back up to cover his shoulders and walked towards Sulu.

Sulu appreciated Chekov's occasional monumental rages, for the opportunity they gave him to release the inevitable tensions of being a responsible and hardworking officer on bar-loads of willing Orions and the like. For the first time, he knew that all that anger was intended for him. He rejected the urge to take cover and waited until Chekov was near enough for quiet conversation. "Okay, calm down…"

"And just how far do you intend to let the next one go?" was all the ensign said.

It was enough. Both of them knew that an officer was responsible for the physical and moral welfare of the men under his command. Both of them also knew that the lieutenant's scores on maintaining both for the ensign were dropping lower by the moment. "Look, I'm sorry…"

"Sorry is not helping me very much right now."

"Chekov, there are things I can do to make you less vulnerable, but I don't think you'll like them. How badly do you want them to leave you alone?"

"What sort of question is that?" the ensign demanded. "How badly do you think I want that?"

"Okay." Sulu reached out and started refastening Chekov's shirt front.

"What are you…"

"Shhh," the lieutenant admonished him. "This has got to be something the natives will understand, and they'll understand that I don't want anyone eyeing my property, right?"

"Sulu…" The navigator's usual light tenor had descended to a threatening growl.

The helmsman finished the final button and pulled Chekov's collar straight. "That's better. Now." He fixed the ensign's eyes with a stare that said trust me, then turned towards the offending kiani. "Excuse me, I think that the cultural differences between us have caused some confusion. Ensign Chekov is mine. So hands off, please."

"Sulu," the kiani responded instantly, "my sincerest repentance."

The kiani's sincerest repentance sounded a good deal less than sincere. There was a smirk on his face and a cynical, trouble-making note in his voice that set his fellows to snickering. 

As Sulu feared, it didn't look like he was going to be allowed to get away with it that easily. He glanced back at Chekov, wondering how far he would have to go to make this stick and whether he'd have to pass the boundary of what Chekov was prepared to take. The ensign already looked profoundly unhappy at this new development. Sulu swallowed and decided he'd live with the consequences. The kiani did at least seem to abide by their own awful rules. 

He twisted his fist into a handful of Chekov's shirt front and pulled the ensign towards him. Chekov, taken by surprise, staggered and clutched at Sulu's arms to steady himself. Taking a deep breath, Sulu leaned forward and kissed him.

He felt the other man freeze… then felt him try to pull away but held him in place. "Count to ten, Ensign," he whispered. "That's a direct order."

The lieutenant retained his grip on Chekov's shirt as he turned back to the waiting kiani. "As I said, Chekov is mine."

The whole courtyard seemed to be focused on him. Sulu couldn't remember ever seeing a group of kiani so quiet.

"And as I said," the kiani who'd tried to undress Chekov replied at last, "sincerest repentance, Sulu. I truly didn't know."

The apology was satisfyingly genuine. As the crowd around him dispersed, the looks the lieutenant was getting from the Kibree displayed a new sense of respect. He turned back to his servant with a smile.

"There," he said, straightening the ensign's red robe. "They won't touch you now. I should have done that right from the start."

"Take your hands off me," Chekov said very quietly, keeping his eyes on the ground.

Sulu felt a sudden tremor of fear, that he'd done something irretrievable. Keyed up though Chekov was, he'd expected him to be able to treat the gesture as a joke, a harmless intimacy between two good friends. "Come on, don't overreact. Count to ten."

"Adeen, dvar, tree, cheteeri…"

Sulu knew he was in trouble now. Chekov only spoke Russian in states of extreme emotion. "Calm down, Chekov. I warned you I might have to do something drastic…"

"Vorsim, djevitch, djesitch…"

"Oh, come on. Be reasonable. You can see how it works. Either I say I want you, or you're up for grabs."

"Thank you, Lieutenant." Chekov looked directly at him for the first time and wiped his mouth deliberately with the back of his hand. "But if that is your idea of protecting me…" 

"Kiani, may I have your attention, please!" Gebain's voice was unnaturally cheery, but it still sent prickles of apprehension up both men's spines. Sulu found he couldn't drag his eyes away from Chekov's accusing glare. "The kepir have commenced their run. You must attend to your own needs for the remainder of the day."

The sound of trays hitting tables as a score of servants abandoned their duties and headed for the door was like a thunder roll. Only Chekov didn't react.

The major domo walked over to him and tapped him lightly on the arm. "And you too, Chekov. Don't be late. They won't wait for you… and I'm sure you don't want to be late again today."

"I didn't know it was compulsory." Chekov didn't remember to lower his eyes until the last moment. "… Mister Gebain."

"It's not, Chekov. It's supposed to be fun. Now run along." Gebain's patronizing grimace clearly said enjoy yourself or else. 

Sulu intervened. "Mister Gebain, with respect, Chekov is behind with his work assignments. I really can't spare him today."

"No one works when the kepir run." 

Yet another Kibree axiom, evidently. Gebain's expression was disapproving. Looking around, Sulu realized that once again, he was about to get on the wrong side of everyone. He wished he had more idea of what the kepir hunt was, whether it was the sort of event at which an alien servant could have an unfortunate accident for which no one would be responsible.

"If you are anxious about his safety, Lieutenant Sulu," Gebain said smoothly, seemingly reading his thought, "let me assure you, that no one, to my knowledge, has ever been bitten by a kepir."

A titter of genteel laughter rippled round the room

Without waiting for the nod Sulu was in the midst of giving him, Chekov turned and left.

As the last of the servants disappeared, Gebain busied himself putting covers over dishes of food and checking that shutters and blinds were in place to keep the sun off the various tables. 

Sulu turned to find Davies at his side. 

"Off the record," he confided to her with a sigh, "I think I just made a big mistake."

"I don't know." Davies' smile was tight and unreadable. "He's a frightfully good kisser though, isn't he?"

"Davies…" he protested as she walked away.

"Lieutenant!" Johnson had Uyal in tow. "Listen to this."

"I was simply telling Mister Johnson that the servants are excused from their duties while the hunt takes place." The kiani had once more slipped into his familiar role of tour guide. "The electrical supplies are also interrupted for safety reasons. Most of us treat the day as a holiday…"

Sulu saw another day of his schedule sliding into oblivion. "What is the kepir hunt?" And why didn't anyone see fit to mention it to me? he added silently.

"Just a traditional amusement. A day off for the servants. We serve them dinner tonight." Uyal gave him an encouraging smile. "I'm sure you'll feel better now that everyone knows about you and Chekov. Ensign Johnson was explaining to me how difficult it is for you to pursue sexual liaisons between persons of different rank…" Sulu cast a worried glance at Johnson, wondering what the ensign had intended to communicate to Uyal. "But of course, for us it's so much more straightforward than relationships between kiani, that most of us never bother with the latter. I've been pursuing a marriage contract with Kahsheel for nearly seven seasons, and all I've got out of it so far is a massive bill from my lawyer…"

-o- -o-o-o- -o-


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The situation escalates on all fronts

In the pitch darkness of the under tunnels, Chekov realized uneasily that he still didn't know what a kepir was. At some primitive, angry level he hoped it was something he could tear apart with his bare hands. He could hear Dollu breathing steadily less than a metre away. Out of gratitude for her loyalty earlier, he'd decided to stick close to her. Both were keeping silent as instructed by Mras, who appeared to be leader of the hunt. He hadn't seen fit to offer Chekov any explanation for his behavior over the stolen wire. In fact, he gave no signs of being in the least troubled or embarrassed by his betrayal. From the dwarf's behavior one could assume he'd forgotten the entire incident had ever taken place.

Several of the score or so servants in their group carried covered lamps. Chekov figured that at any moment Mras would give the order to uncover the lights, thus catching the kepir, whatever it was, blinking and bewildered by the sudden light. The ensign just hoped that Gebain hadn't been lying about the creature having fewer teeth than the klee fish, or at least being more shy about using them.

Chekov was beginning to wish that whatever was going to happen would happen soon. The protective effects of the last blue pill he'd taken were definitely on the wane. He was beginning to feel weak and dizzy. Worse than that, he felt a gnawing thirst starting in his throat, a thirst for something he knew he couldn't drink…

The light flashed on and he froze. The solid rock floor was a seething carpet of shiny black. He looked down at his feet. For some reason - maybe they avoided warmth - the horrible things left a ten centimetre berth around his boots. Once, just once, he'd seen a cockroach in a load of cargo brought aboard the _Enterprise_ in a hurry, without the proper precautions. He'd felt almost as sick then as he did now, although Mister Scott's outrage had made a bigger impression than the physical fact of the creature itself. The engineer's reaction had been sensor sweeps and irradiation. Gebain's was obviously to send his slaves out on a hunt. 

What was unfathomable was the pleasure the huntsmen seemed to take in the operation. Dollu was down on her hands and knees, shoveling the things into the sack she carried. Others were imitating her, while one or two inventive souls were less energetically but more effectively holding open bags below a service duct grill. The vermin were pouring out in a living waterfall. The technique only required one hand and one of the hunters used his other to pluck a single specimen and wave it at the ensign. 

"Don't take a liking to kepir, eh, Feddie?" the Kibree asked, then bit into it. 

Chekov heard its shell crunch before the tunnel went black again.

He opened his eyes and realised he was staring at the ceiling. His head was resting in someone's lap. A warm Kibree hand was on his cheek.

Dollu smiled down at him. "Better now?"

"Dollu?" He struggled to rise, but the pounding in his temples convinced him that this wasn't a good idea yet. "Oh, my head…"

"Take ease, Feddie," his companion advised. She alone had abandoned the hunt to check he was all right. The others seemed to have moved on to another part of the cellar. She'd kept one of the lamps with her. A little ways away another one had been left behind, presumably to mark the way they'd come. The floor was clear of infestation but the woman's bag heaved with the brownian motion of its prisoners.

"I can't believe I fainted." Events seemed to be conspiring to make the ensign vulnerable to the depredations of all and sundry. Even his own body seemed to be letting him down. Someone had loosened his shirt again. He pulled it closed reflexively. "Was I out long?" 

"Not long." She patted his cheek comfortingly. A small heap of empty kepir shells revealed that she had been snacking while waiting for him to revive.

"You eat those?"

"Gives a smooooth mouth and warm blood." She batted her lashes at him, the Kibree equivalent of a broad wink, and crunched another one. 

Chekov's stomach was hardened to it now. The rush of bile barely registered.

"Take sight." 

When she held one out to him, the ensign found to his surprise that it wasn't an insect at all. There was no sign of a head or limbs. Perhaps the creature had withdrawn them like a turtle. "Where do these come from?"

It was Dollu's turn to look surprised now. "You copped clearing leaves in the garden — kepir leaves?"

He remembered what he'd thought was fruit in the trees the previous evening. Making no move to get up from where he was fairly comfortably settled with his head in Dollu's narrow lap, Chekov held out his hand for one cautiously. The kepir she placed there felt warm and dry, like polished wood.

She mimed snapping it in two. "Give crack." 

Gritting his teeth bravely he complied. The kepir was not animal or insect. It definitely looked like some sort of nut. Half a dozen pale tendrils were coiled like springs at one end, where the two halves of the shell didn't quite fit together. They jerked into tighter loops when Chekov poked at them with a curious finger. But the rest of the thing was undifferentiated white kernel, like the meat of a brazil nut. 

"Take chew!" Dollu encouraged him, popping one into her own mouth.

He nibbled a little experimentally. The kepir was sweet, bland and slightly oily. Finding nothing to discourage him, he finished it. The nut had a warm scent and taste that only gradually became noticeable, a scent that wasn't culinary, but seemed very familiar and enticing. Remembering the moving vegetable stew, he asked, "Do many of your plant species possess independent mobility?"

"Oh, Feddie!" Dollu laughed. "Your speech is too slidely for slaggish ears."

"The plants." He tried to illustrate with understandable gestures. "Do they all… walk around?"

"The kepir take fall from tree, then…" She copied his gesture for walking. "… find place for new tree."

Chekov nodded sagely as she broke another one open and put it in his mouth. "A novel dispersion technique." 

His companion laughed. "If you say, Feddie."

She drew another morsel from a pocket and lowered it to his lips. Almost too late he realized this was not kepir but a small piece of peeva.

"I…" he began to protest. Unfortunately, this opened rather than closed his mouth. Once the peeva was safely inside, no power in the world could induce him to spit it back out. A luscious, comforting warmth quickly spread to all his extremities. "I shouldn't have let you do that, Dollu," he said, closing his eyes.

"Such a wee chew won't give harm," she assured him, stroking his hair away from his face.

"I should be building up some sort of tolerance," he agreed, knowing both statements to be completely false. It began to seem more and more pleasant to be here alone with Dollu — who was one of the few people on this whole benighted planet who was consistently nice to him. That thought made him notice an absence. "Where is your friend? The one without a name?"

"She holds a place for us," his companion answered with a peculiar intensity.

"I don't understand," he said, as she moved her sack of kepir to one side and loosened the sash around her waist. "What are we going to do?"

She giggled huskily. "Whatever you like, Feddie."

While he puzzled over this, she lifted him up by the shoulders.

Her legs must be going numb, he realized guiltily. He intended only to pull himself to sitting, but somehow in the process, he wound up with his arms around Dollu. Once there, it seemed so natural to kiss her, he didn't stop to think about it. Neither did he pay much attention to the fact that instead of sitting up himself, he was pushing her gently to the floor. Only when he stopped himself from reaching for her breast did he pause to think he might be pushing their friendship a little far.

"I'm terribly sorry, Dollu," he said, pulling away.

"Don't make such foolish speech," she admonished him. "I took sweet of your sight the first my eyes took rest on you, Feddie." She opened her robe. "Now, take of me what you wish."

At that moment, it seemed a perfectly reasonable thing to do.

Fifteen minutes later she pulled her garment closed and retied the sash. Her eyes were almost as wide as Chekov's. The now smoking lamp flame reflected out of the enormity of her pupils. She was trembling.

The ensign had a vague feeling that he'd done something wrong. He couldn't quite put his finger on what. "Was it… I mean, are you all right?" he asked anxiously, barely stopping himself from blurting out, Was it good for you? like a giddy adolescent.

"Oh, Feddie…" Dollu was smiling at him affectionately. She did it with her mouth shut and the effect was almost… well, it verged on the merely plain. "That curly red one be no fool."

The mention of Kahsheel only added to his uneasiness. He told himself that it was ridiculous to feel guilty. Last night the kiani had proved herself quite happy to see him sleep with all and sundry. As a reward for not being so fickle, Chekov leaned forward and kissed his present companion again.

She returned the embrace eagerly. After reaching into her bag, she pressed four kepir into his hand. "Give again?"

"I… I…" The kepir were about eight centimetres long by two wide. They were slightly warm and slippery. They made him feel there was somewhere else he should be. "I don't think that's possible."

"Take rest a bit, Feddie," she suggested amiably.

"That is not what I meant." He closed his fist over the kepir. "I must go. I said…"

"You fear the kibbie-eyed one will take temper with you? Give you raps for making dally without permission, eh?"

"No, that's not the problem. I have some work I have to do…" He felt uncomfortably like he was ending a relationship — a relationship that hadn't even been a relationship a few minutes ago. "I suppose I will see you later. Take ease, Dollu."

"Aye…"

"Is something wrong?" he asked guiltily. "Tell me what's wrong?"

A couple of tears ran out of the corners of her perfect almond eyes.

"No… nothing is wrong. Take ease, brother Chekov."

She snatched up her bag and fled into the darkened tunnels. Chekov considered going after her. He cared that he'd upset her, but the drug didn't let him care quite enough to get up and more than likely get lost in the maze of tunnels. Instead he picked up her lamp and walked back along the way they'd come towards the other abandoned light.

When he reached its pool of yellow light, only the peeva stopped him letting out a yelp of indignant surprise. Bathed in illumination like old varnish, Mras was industriously tugging wire out of a conduit. He looked like an extra in a Brueghel painting. 

The dwarf grinned up at Chekov. "Does everything go to your head so quick? Take watch over that loose-mouthed mort. If Dollu tell her kiani Sitag you pinked her, Gebain will warm your seat for certain."

Chekov was more intrigued by what the dwarf was doing than worried about his warning. "Why should she tell him?" 

"Because she's stupid."

"No. She was intelligent enough to get me out of trouble with Gebain after you… Why did you do that?" The small amount of peeva he'd had wouldn't let him be angry, but it couldn't quite smother his hurt or his curiosity.

"I took need of this wire, and no need of a sore rump. Wouldn't hurt an ape-kiani Feddie like you to taste the wrong end of a stir paddle."

"None of this is my fault, Mras," he said, taking in the whole unfair Kibrian socio-economic situation. "Why do you hate me now?"

Mras laughed, wounding Chekov's feelings again. However it was only the bemused earnestness induced by the drug that amused the dwarf. "I don't hate you, Feddie. Who d'you think told Dollu what to say? I might have let you take a few licks, but it's in a good cause."

Chekov's eyes followed the conduit up through the roof of the little chamber they were in. He could dimly make out a service way through the hole knocked in the ceiling. His brain struggled to make sense of Mras' activities, but the peeva was too much for him. "What do you do with this wire?" 

"You don't want to know."

"I do."

"Better you don't take any knowledge of this, Feddie. That way you can't go worry your Kibbie-eyed master with it. It's a kindness," the dwarf explained with an unkind smile. 

Chekov frowned. "What?"

"Madame Kiriar Director is in big trouble with her paymasters. And the director lady will make big trouble for your Kibbie-eyed Mister Sulu… if he doesn't play her game. And if I don't get this finished."

This sounded like something that Chekov really needed to understand and attend to. Unfortunately his mind seemed to be functioning in a different time zone. He seized on the mention of Sulu amidst so much that he didn't understand. "I must go. Is this it? Is this all there is to the hunt?"

"They'll keep collecting all day. And there's a party in the kitchen yard. But you won't be interested in that." He grinned at Chekov's puzzled expression. "Lots of chew, but you're already cooked both sides. Plenty of easy morts, but you already had that too. Better run home to your Mister-kiani Sulu while you're still hot."

"Mras…" he protested automatically, rubbing the kepir in his hand.

"Give quiet, Feddie. All saw him claim you this morning."

Even the dull fog of the peeva couldn't damp down that aching resentment. It just made it impossible to think dispassionately about what Sulu had been trying to do.

"Now, run home to your master before he sends Gebain after you with a stick," the dwarf dismissed him. "Keep straight on, turn sunways at the end."

Chekov looked at both his hands, trying to turn Kibree astronomy into right and left. 

Mras reached out and tapped his left hand, concern marking the lines in his misshapen face. "Give ear, brother Chekov. When your master's done with you, tell him you have to see Mister Gebain. Go down to kitchen yard. Take care to be there for first moonset. Understand?"

"Why?"

"Don't give bother over why, shork brains. Just do it." The dwarf seemed frustrated by the slow pace of Chekov's mental processes. He climbed stiffly to his feet, bringing his nose about level with the ensign's waist. Chekov started to laugh at his comically serious expression. Mras grabbed his shirt and yanked him forward. "Promise me you'll be there, brother."

"Yes, I'll be there. I give you my word."

Mras released him. Chekov watched him for a moment as he bit off the wire with his uneven teeth and made a connection. Then the dwarf grinned at him, picked up his lamp and disappeared into the tunnels, unreeling metres of wire behind him.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

The station timepieces were showing an hour before noon when Chekov emerged from the under tunnels into the deserted kitchen. Both moons were, he knew, up but invisible in the strong daylight. As they neared the horizon, and the sun also neared setting, they would become visible. The first moonset would occur some three hours before sunset, ten hours from now. He'd been impressed enough by Mras' insistence that he should be in the kitchen yard at the appointed time to make a mental resolution not to disappoint the dwarf. He felt no desire to go there now. Music, laughter and loud, quarreling voices came in through the windows. It sounded like the party had already started. Somehow he didn't feel he'd be welcome. He headed for Sulu's quarters instead.

He didn't meet the lieutenant's eyes when Sulu met him at the door and glanced warily up and down the corridor. Chekov had plainly returned alone, but at least no one seemed to be around to notice this lapse.

"Are you all right?" he asked anxiously as he stood aside to let Chekov pass inside. 

"Yes." The room was cool and quiet. The shutters were closed against the noonday glare.

From the first monosyllable, Sulu knew that all was not well. "I was beginning to worry about you."

"Sorry."

Then again, drugged calm did seem preferable to the row the lieutenant had been anticipating for hours now. "Is the kepir hunt over?"

"Yes. I even caught a few." The ensign held out his clenched hand with his share of Dollu's haul. When he opened it for Sulu to see the four kepir sprang into the air and skittered off across the floor.

"What the hell are they? Bugs?" Sulu went and pushed open a shutter to aid the search for the escaped kepir.

"Not exactly." Chekov, blinking furiously, quickly got down on his hands and knees under the computer workstation and pinned down two of the fugitives. He made a pretense of looking for them until his eyes stopped aching from the strong light. When he thought he'd prolonged the search as long as he could, he emerged and offered one of the kepir up to the lieutenant. "They invade the building and nest in crevices in the cellar. They are…"

"Disgusting?" Sulu suggested, examining his specimen reluctantly.

"Quite delicious." Chekov crunched the other one.

Sulu gagged. "For God's sake, Chekov…"

"What?" He picked a fragment of the shell from between his teeth and squinted innocently at the lieutenant. 

"How many more of those have you got?" Sulu demanded.

"A few more…" Chekov glanced around optimistically, but evidently thought better of going in search of them. "They've gotten away."

As Sulu walked over to the disposal unit and threw the kepir in, he decided that they'd spent long enough pretending that Chekov wasn't drugged. "Okay, Pavel," he said, crossing over and reclosing the blinds. "Where did you get the peeva, and why did you take it?"

The ensign hung his head miserably. "Oh, no."

"I know we forgot to get one of those blue pills into you this morning, but…"

"It's another beating then," the ensign said with quiet resignation. "Oh, well… Shall we do it here or in the hall?"

Sulu couldn't tell if this was serious or a particularly nasty joke. "No, no. I have no intention of beating you."

"Good." Chekov sat down on the floor unexpectedly and began pulling his boots off. "I hate beatings. I was never beaten as a child, you know."

"I can imagine." Sulu put his hands on his hips.

"I am getting hot." Chekov began to pull on the fastenings of his shirt restively.

"Well, make yourself comfortable. Listen, there's something I want to ask you about."

"Yes?" The peeva seemed to be scrambling his co-ordination. It looked as if it would take him some time to get out of the garment.

"When we got back from the kideok, we had twenty jewels between us, didn't we? Why was there more like thirty in there this morning?" Sulu pointed at the cupboard beside his bed.

Chekov slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. "I knew I had to tell you something."

"This isn't more trouble, is it? I was hoping you were just getting tips."

"Tips?" Chekov looked at him narrowly. Sulu watched the entire slow-motion process of this word going down the wrong way. "Gratuities? For what?"

"Forget it. I was just trying to make a joke."

"Are you insinuating that I'm …" It took a moment for Chekov's brain to come up with something suitably insulting. "…having sex for money?"

"No, I'm not insinuating anything." Sulu reached down and tried to help him up. "Chekov, you're not thinking straight. Calm down."

"I am perfectly calm." He immediately disproved this by ripping the last button off his tunic. "I just want to know what I'm being accused of."

"I'm not accusing you of anything. You were just going to tell me where you got the extra jewels from, but if you don't want to…"

Chekov pulled away from him. He took the small pouch containing their shared wealth out of the cupboard and tossed it down the chute after the kepir. He turned back to the lieutenant with a look of drunken defiance.

Sulu was beginning to have second thoughts about the idea of a beating. "Well," he said instead. "I guess that takes care of that."

"Yes." As if he considered the matter closed, the ensign walked across the room, pulling his shirt off and tossing it aside — only narrowly managing to miss Sulu.

"You're going to take a shower now?" the lieutenant asked, patiently retrieving the garment. "No." Chekov started to fumble with the fastenings on his trousers. "I assume you want me on the bed."

"Hey, wait." Sulu grabbed him by the arm. "What do you mean by that?" He realized this was perhaps a mistake when Chekov paused in undressing and put his free hand on Sulu's cheek. He stood studying the lieutenant's face with his bleary brown eyes for a long time. "How can you be half-Kibbie?" the ensign asked softly, then laughed as if to himself. "That's stupid, isn't it?" 

Sulu found himself momentarily at a loss as the ensign finished undressing and climbed into his bed. Normally when faced with difficult situations with personnel under his command, he asked himself how Captain Kirk would deal with such a problem. Somehow he just couldn't imagine Kirk ever getting into a situation as outrageous as this one. "Look, Chekov, this is going too far. If this is some sort of joke… If you're just trying to get back at me…"

The ensign blinked, as if his outburst was difficult to decipher. "You want me on my back?"

Sulu took an involuntary step backwards. "No, I didn't say that. I did not say that."

"You will have to tell me these things, Lieutenant," Chekov said guilelessly. "It's not as though I have a great deal of experience to fall back on."

"This has gotten way too weird," Sulu complained to no one in particular.

"Of course, I have never done anything quite like this in my entire life," Chekov said upon reflection. Taking his clothes off had made him feel cooler and more comfortable. Lying down was making him feel more clear-headed. Unfortunately, feeling more lucid under these circumstances was not a particularly pleasant sensation. "It's not as though I really want to do this. How bad can it be, though? Every day I am abused by a variety of petty kitchen dictators, mutants and malcontents. You, my friend, assault and humiliate me this morning in front of my fellow officers and the entire Kibree race. I have even been reduced to eating vermin. It only seems fitting I go through this also."

Sulu shook his head. "You're only feeling this way because of the peeva."

"I feel this way because everyone I trust betrays me."

"That's not true. It's just this situation we're in…"

"It's the situation I'm in," Chekov retorted, rising to his elbows. "I wouldn't mind being in the situation you're in. I could make as much of a shambles of this situation as you have quite comfortably."

Sulu sighed and sat down at the foot of the bed, resting his chin against his fist. As if his sudden attraction to the lieutenant had just as suddenly turned into repulsion, Chekov responded to this closing of the distance between them by pulling his knees up under the sheets and hugging them, frowning forbiddingly at Sulu the whole time.

"Okay, Chekov," he said after a few moments of silent contemplation. "I guess this is as good an indication as I'm going to get that the situation with you can't go on any further. It's time to re-negotiate with the Kibree. They can't deny that I've made every effort to make this work. And they need this project every bit as much as the Federation does. I'll go to the Director and withdraw our cooperation until she is prepared to come to some agreement over your treatment that is acceptable to me."

"It won't work," Chekov blurted out suddenly, as if this were a revelation.

"I'm going to make it work. Listen, the only way I see right now — after losing this whole day — of getting this project in on time is to lock you in this room in front of the computer with a supply of those blue pills. The Kibree can't argue with that."

"But they will," Chekov predicted, then said to himself in slave-caste dialect, "Madame Kiriar Director is in big trouble with her paymasters…"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that the Station Director is under pressure from some outside force, perhaps a criminal element. Soon, she's going to try to persuade you to slant your report so someone named Ffafner gets the construction contract for the next stage of the project. If you come to her with a set of demands about better treatment for me, then it will be all the more easy to get you to agree to what she wants."

"How do you know all this?" Sulu half-hoped Chekov was going to admit it was all just drug-induced paranoia.

"Because people say things in front of slaves that they assume slaves are too stupid to understand," Chekov replied. "And even the slaves talk in front of me because I'm just a stupid Feddie that takes no understanding of slaggish concerns."

"What happens if I don't cooperate?" Sulu asked. "More pressure on you? Another attempt on your life?"

"Probably."

Sulu shook his head. "I just don't see how Kahsheel's scheme fits in with all of this. It seems like it would be in her best interest to keep you alive."

"Maybe it doesn't have to fit," Chekov said slowly. It made his head ache to think so fast. "Maybe it's like the way they play chess on Alpha Centauri…"

It took Sulu a minute to figure that one out. On Alpha Centauri, the twist on the traditional game of chess was that while two living opponents took the traditional black and white sides, a computer played red pieces in random patterns that were either an obstacle to the novice, or a potential wedge for a master player to use to gain advantage. "You're saying that you don't think we're facing one enemy — one unified conspiracy. You think there are two opposing sides that are trying to use us to defeat each other."

Chekov nodded. "One side is pro-technology and advancement -more so than the current administration."

"Kahsheel's side," Sulu agreed. "They arranged that run-in between you and the kiriar, knowing that even if you only bumped into him, he'd probably be so offended that he'd make you into a slave. As property, it wouldn't look suspicious if you were to become addicted to peeva and very easy to influence. It probably would have been better for them if I hadn't been able to come up with the money to buy you…"

"But they were anticipated by the other side who are radically anti-Federation and wish to sabotage our efforts here."

"Uyal," Sulu said.

"What?"

"He's working for this side. He gave me the money for my boots — just enough for me to outbid everyone else, just enough to keep you out of the other side's hands. All along, he's given me advice that has put you in more and more trouble and has put more and more of a strain on the relationship between us and the Kibrian government."

"My death would cause a rather significant strain," Chekov observed dispassionately.

"So would my being blackmailed into giving the construction contract to an incompetent," Sulu agreed. "Or you having your tongue cut out by Datvin."

"Or blowing up the entire station."

Sulu blinked. "What?"

"This station is built on top of a maze of tunnels," Chekov informed him. "I think they've been mined."

"Oh, my God! We'll have to stop it."

Chekov's hand came down on his, his grip surprisingly strong. "No, we won't."

"What are you talking about? Do you know how many people there are in this station? How many families?"

"According to the Prime Directive, anything a native Kibrian does on this planet is sacrosanct."

"But we can't just ignore it, Chekov. However much you may dislike them, they're still intelligent beings…"

"…Who have the right to run their own world as they see fit, regardless of our opinions." 

Sulu shook his head, not wanting to consider the truth of this. "Ethical questions aside for the moment, when is this going to happen?"

Chekov paused for a moment, as it hit him that just like Sulu's 'friend' Uyal, Mras had attached himself to the ensign and repeatedly put him into questionable situations. "Could be any minute now. Before about, oh… half an hour before first moon set, I imagine."

"Why d'you think that?" Sulu demanded.

"Because the… person who warned me, told me to get to a safe place in time for first moonset."

"You're not making sense, Chekov." 

"I don't think he meant to warn me. I think he meant to mislead me."

Sulu started to use the comm unit before remembering that that too was without power today. He turned away from it with an exasperated oath. Instead he was reduced to sticking his head out of the door and yelling, "Johnson! Davies! Get in here!" He then turned back to the ensign. "Put some clothes on, Chekov."

The ensign shook his head as he slowly complied. "Even if we rescue ourselves, we're interfering. This group of Kibrians has decided to blow up their environmental station and a party of Starfleet officers Besides, if we all suddenly leave, someone will ask questions…"

"Do me a favor and shut up for a minute," Sulu said, throwing his shirt at him. "No, wait. First tell me about this safe place…"

"It might not be. The three of you would have no excuse for being there…"

"Yes, Lieuten…"

Johnson burst in, closely followed by Davies. If there wasn't a time bomb ticking under them and if all this was happening to someone else, Sulu might have found the surprise with which the two ensigns greeted the sight of a semi-clothed Chekov sitting on his unmade bed almost comical. Davies raised her eyebrows at him, obviously expecting one hell of a good explanation later. Instead of the stony disapproval he thought he'd see on Johnson's face, he caught a flicker of what for one split second looked like wistful longing.

"You called us, Lieutenant?" Johnson asked, as if he'd never appeared to be anything but his stolidly practical self.

"Johnson, if you wanted to sabotage this station, how would you do it?" Sulu asked him point blank, hoping for some argument to counter Chekov's suspicions.

"Uh, I'd open a service valve on the natural gas pipeline that runs underneath the station. Let it leak for a couple of hours and set off a small explosion…"

This wasn't very comforting. "Where in the station would be the safest place to be when you did that?"

Johnson looked at Chekov. "I don't know much about the layout. Mister Chekov might…"

"The kitchens are a modern addition. The cellars stop just short of them," Chekov replied, shouldering into his shirt. "What fuel do they use? Doesn't the station have an independent generator?"

Johnson stared at the ceiling, trying to recall details from their introductory tour of the facility. "Fuel oil of some sort, stored in tanks under the front courtyard. If you let that leak out…"

"…Into the water channels that go everywhere under the station then ignited it…" Chekov continued.

"A small explosive charge at the base of the retaining wall below the cisterns would do maximum damage to property without too much harm to personnel," Davies suggested.

Sulu looked at his three subordinates and found himself wondering if the three of them would as quickly come up with effective ways to destroy, say, the _Enterprise_. "Is that what your friends intend to do?" he asked Chekov.

"I don't know." Chekov shook his head. "I don't know how many people are involved, or who's behind it. I don't think 'my friend' was too concerned about the number of casualties among the higher castes."

"They don't need an explosion if they're using the gas line," Angharad said. "Something's bound to spark when the power comes back on."

"Anyone got a clue about when that will be?" Sulu asked.

"Five minutes after first moonset." Johnson blushed faintly when they all looked at him. "I needed to know for some simulations I wanted to run while the computer wasn't too busy. They needed most of the memory…"

"And while the power's off, any security systems they may have won't work. This kepir hunt is the obvious time to do it…" Sulu mused.

"So what do we do, Lieutenant?" Davies asked.

"I will go back to the cellars," Chekov said, pulling on his boots. "And speak with my friend. The hunt is supposed to go on for a while yet. I'm fairly certain nothing will happen before the last servant comes out of the cellars."

"Hold it a second." Sulu put a restraining hand on his arm. "I'm not sure we can get involved in this. As you said before, it would be interfering… Although I don't think the Prime Directive obligates us to sit here and get blown up…"

"Sulu, do you know what you're saying?" Davies was horrified. "There are three hundred people in this station. I don't particularly like most of them, but…"

"Three hundred?" Chekov finished putting on his boots and stood up, blazing indignation. "And I suppose you think there are only three people in this room?"

"What are you on about now?"

"How many people are there in this room?" Chekov insisted, even more angrily.

Sulu looked round, trying to work out what the catch was.

"There are four people in the room, and there are five hundred and twenty one people resident in the station." Johnson looked stonily at Sulu. "Of whom some two hundred and twenty are of servant caste."

Sulu and Davies exchanged long-suffering glances. 

"Look, Chekov, I can't just let you go off…"

Chekov took in a deep breath. Deep in the marrow of his bones he knew that he was going to meet the destiny that the magician had prophesied. Under these circumstances, he was perfectly content to do so. If he had to break the Prime Directive to save five hundred and twenty one lives — and perhaps countless more who would be killed in reprisals for the incident — then so be it. However, he couldn't very well expect Sulu to authorize him to do so on the word of a nameless local fortune teller.

"Lieutenant," he began reasonably. "Considering the grave consequences of any action or inaction, you must have as much information as possible in order to make the correct decision. If I go quickly, I have the time and opportunity to gain crucial information that should greatly clarify this situation. My informant will not speak with any of you."

Sulu bit his lip, wishing he could think of a good reason to say no. "I'll have to send Johnson with you. We can't afford to have you stopped because you're out without an escort."

Chekov looked at the tall meteorologist and sighed. "All right."

"Don't draw attention to yourselves," Sulu advised as they headed for the door. "If you're caught, you know what it'll look like." 

Chekov stopped, his hand on the door. He hadn't thought of that.

"I've always been a keen amateur dendrologist," Johnson said unexpectedly. "I was discussing the kepir with Uyal at the morning break today. I can say I asked Chekov to help me find some specimens." He pushed the reluctant navigator out into the corridor. 

As the door shut, Sulu turned to Davies. "And now I think I've just sanctioned an outright breach of the Prime Directive."

"Oh, don't worry about that." She put her arms around him and squeezed tight. "I think Captain Kirk will be really proud of you."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"I don't think we should go in there."

Chekov frowned at the restraining arm Johnson put in front of his chest. The kitchen yard did seem a little on the risky side right now. The air was thick with the scent of peeva smoke and the party seemed to have developed into an orgy of sorts.

"Wait here." Chekov firmly pushed the meteorologist's arm aside, using his fellow ensign's doubt to steel himself against temptation.

Mras wasn't there. He didn't see Dollu either, but Nula was sitting alone.

"Nula, have you seen Mras?"

The servant woman turned a tear stained face up to him. "Feddie?" 

"Take ease, Sister Nula," he said, taking the time to speak to her calmly, and in her own dialect, for fear of frightening her into incoherence. "Do you take knowledge of where is Mras?"

The eyes she looked out of were more despairing than afraid. "Mras send me out here. He gives search for my nammie."

"What?"

"My nammie, my wee nammie. She's gone lost in cellars. I…"

"Mras is down there looking for her?"

Nula looked blank.

Chekov was beginning to lose both his patience and his passive tolerance for peeva smoke. "I wish to help him… to give search also."

She was unmoved by his good intentions. He hesitated for a moment, but he knew that if he stood there in that fragrant smoke any longer even his teeth would break out in a cold sweat. Giving up on her, he hurried back to Johnson. "He's in the cellars, looking for a missing child."

Johnson folded his arms thoughtfully. "You're sure this isn't just a trick, to get you down there? So maybe you get the blame for whatever is about to happen? Or so that it happens to you?"

"No, I…" Chekov's confidence ebbed upon reflection. "…I don't think so."

"But you're not certain."

Chekov crossed his arms. "If you don't wish to come, Mister Johnson…"

"Mister Sulu told me to stick with you." Johnson unfolded his arms again and looked expectantly at the smaller man. "Let's go." 

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"Is this one of the kepir?"

Chekov looked round, frowning furiously. "I am trying to concentrate, Mister Johnson. It is very difficult to remember the directions." The uneven passageways looked surprisingly different in the safe, blue-white light of Johnson's torch. "Here!" 

Chekov had been switching Johnson's tricorder back and forth between scanning for signs of gas or fuel oil leaks, and evidence of the dwarf or the missing child.

"Shh!" Both men froze. 

There was someone else down here. The footsteps were coming from the kitchen, back the way they had come.

Johnson turned off the light.

The intruder, whoever it was, took a different turning. A glimmer of light from a lamp flashed and disappeared.

"We'll wait a moment," Chekov said cautiously.

Something crunched. A few seconds after Chekov's heart started beating again, he realized that Johnson was examining the kepir. 

"What do these things taste like?"

"Like most other Kibrian plant life," Chekov answered irritably. "Other than an unusual mode of dispersion, I don't see what the Kibree find so unique about them."

Johnson chuckled. "Really? No one told you? How many did you eat?"

Chekov wasn't sure what was striking Johnson as being so amusing. Since the ensign had never shown any sign of possessing a sense of humor before, his idea of a joke was difficult to anticipate. "It's not another drug, is it?"

"You didn't notice any unusual effects?"

Chekov cast his mind back. There was still enough peeva in his system to keep him from considering anything that had happened particularly noteworthy

"The oil in them is a potent aphrodisiac, apparently."

Chekov was about to say that the substance obviously had no effect on the human system when it occurred to him that there had been several things that he'd said and done that were quite out of the ordinary. "Oh, my…"

"Well, I did wonder…" Johnson didn't need to elaborate. 

Chekov cleared his throat and was glad the utter darkness hid his blushes. "Mister Johnson…"

"…Especially after the way you overreacted to the gesture the lieutenant had to make this morning…"

"Overreacted?" Chekov forgot his embarrassment in the midst of his indignation.

"I thought so," Johnson replied fearlessly. "He was just doing the only thing he could to protect you. And after all, he only kissed you. I thought Russians did that with each other all the time."

"In Russia it does not indicate that they sleep with each other," Chekov replied. "What Mister Sulu did was a… an unacceptably proprietary gesture. It puts me in the position of…"

"You don't know what sort of positions those kiani were thinking of putting you in…"

"His gesture forces me to perpetuate the impression that I… That our relationship is…"

"Well, so what? There's nothing wrong with that. Or do you think there is?"

Chekov cleared his throat again, not being completely comfortable with discussing homophobia in depth with another man he barely knew in the dark. "You can't appreciate the position this puts me in with both the servants and the kiani. Despite Mister Sulu's intentions, I am not exactly in an invulnerable position right now. You've not seen that side of the Kibree as I have. Even Ensign Davies…"

"I think it's safe to go now," Johnson interrupted. 

Chekov looked at the other man in the light of the flashlight when he switched it on again. Was Johnson harboring a secret passion for Davies? Did he perhaps want to believe that there was something between Sulu and Chekov so that he could yearn for the computer specialist without fear of competition? Chekov couldn't really imagine him doing anything more than yearning.

The tricorder registered two Kibree close by, but before he could worry about how to approach them, he heard scuffling footsteps somewhere in the tunnels. There were echoes of the sound of someone struggling and cursing. Johnson clicked the light off again.

"You freak! You larcenous, lying specimen of low life…" It was Gebain's voice, echoing round the corners so that it was completely unclear where it was originating.

There were muffled thumps and squeals of pain. Chekov found Johnson's arm in the dark, leaned close to where he guessed the other ensign's ear was. "It's Gebain."

"Who's he fighting with?"

"Not fighting, beating. And it's Mras I think."

"I know full well that the wretched child is safely locked away in its dormitory!" the echoed voice growled. "So I followed you down here, and now I want to know what you're doing!"

"What's he saying?"

It was hard to remember that the Kibrian language, so much second nature to Chekov now, was still gibberish to Johnson. "Gebain is suspicious, because he's found Mras down here. He doesn't believe the story of the missing child." 

The two officers continued to move cautiously forward until they caught the glimmer of lamp light around a corner. The sounds of someone being beaten were now unmistakable.

"Do you think we should intervene?"

Chekov was stunned into silence. After a moment he said, "I thought I was supposed to be the one who rushed in without fully considering things."

"I was inviting you to fully consider it, Chekov."

Chekov did think about it and came to the reluctant conclusion that any attempt at verbal intervention would produce the worst of all possible outcomes. It would probably mean a flogging for him, unspecified trouble for Johnson, more strain on the overall mission and zero gain for Gebain's victim — and that was before anyone started asking questions about what they were doing down here to begin with. There was, however, still the option of a violent physical intervention that would leave Gebain dead or unconscious in the cellars to meet whatever fate Mras was planning for the rest of the station. Not exactly conduct becoming a Starfleet officer, but a thought that had a definite appeal to the ensign. "It wouldn't do any good," he said correctly.

"No," Johnson agreed readily. Chekov was left unsure whether the man had seriously wanted to intervene, or was only trying to impress on Chekov the foolishness of such a course of action.

There was no more sound from the tunnels. 

"Shall we go?" Chekov suggested impatiently. The prolonged silence was making him very uneasy. It was unlike Gebain to remain silent when he had his victim in his clutches.

"Just a minute more." 

Suddenly they were both blinking in the yellow glare of an oil lamp. Forcing his eyes open, Chekov made out with difficulty that Mras was holding the light. The dwarf was bleeding copiously from cuts on his head and face, and clutching his left side as if that was hurting him too.

"Where's Gebain?" Chekov asked, too surprised to move. 

The little Kibree collapsed to his knees. 

"Dirty knife…" Mras intoned, letting the weapon slip from his fingers. "…soft belly." He keeled over onto his face.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"Exactly my point," Davies said, leafing through a hard copy of the station manual. "The two of you are friends who became friends because of your jobs. You've never really had opportunity to question the way you feel about each other."

"It's just a weird situation." Sulu was running his thumb down the index of another. He was beginning to wish they could just go back to talking about the fact that they were probably going to blow up with the station.

"Yes, exactly. I mean, in the midst of all those hours the two of you have spent at the helm, talking about your various preferences in food, entertainment, women, hobbies and warp-speed tactical maneuvers, I doubt you ever turned to him and said, 'Chekov, old chum, if, to save you from the proverbial fate worse than death, I suddenly began to publicly pretend we were having an affair, how would that strike you?'"

"I wish I had said it now."

Davies shook her head. "I think it's indicative of something that he instinctively headed to you."

"It probably indicates that he was just going where he knew he'd be safe. I've literally carried him back to the ship when he was too drunk to walk. No matter how upset he may have gotten with me this morning — or yesterday morning — he knows I'm not going to purposefully do anything to hurt him."

"I don't know."

"Well, I do. I know him and I know me. There's nothing for you to feel threatened by. I like him and he likes me, but we don't like each other that way." He leaned over and kissed Davies' nose. "I like you that way, though."

"You should," Davies said, tearing a page out of her copy of the manual. "I just found the floor plans you're looking for."

"Excellent!" Sulu held them up to the light. "Now as soon as I have…"

Johnson burst in breathlessly.

"What happened? Where's Chekov?"

"Things didn't go exactly as planned, sir. The servant that Chekov saw mining the tunnels got into an altercation with Gebain, the major domo."

"And?"

"And Mras killed him."

Sulu closed his eyes. "Where's Chekov?"

"With Mras. I gave the Kibree emergency first aid treatment, but he hadn't recovered consciousness yet. I came to get the medikit."

"He'll have to go to the Station Medical Officer and face the consequences of what he did," Sulu said firmly. "No matter how Chekov may feel about this man, this is a station matter now."

"Yes, sir. But as Mister Chekov pointed out, if we don't obtain this man's cooperation, there won't be a station to prosecute him."

"Where are they? In the tunnels?"

Johnson bit his lip. "No, sir."

"Just tell me, Johnson," Sulu said, steeling himself.

"Mister Chekov knew of an underground entrance to Kahsheel's quarters…"

"Oh, marvelous!" Davies rolled her eyes.

"He felt they would be safer there temporarily."

"And you couldn't talk him out of it?"

Johnson shrugged apologetically. "He can be quite persuasive, sir."

"All right. Take the medikit. Extract what information you can from Mras, then extract Chekov from Kahsheel's quarters as soon as possible The two of you are then to turn Mras over to station authorities and report back here. Johnson, it's your job to see that Chekov doesn't do or say anything in front of station officials that's going to cause trouble. I want you to get him back to this room as soon as possible and see to it that he stays put until I get back to talk to him. Tie him to a chair if you have to."

"Yes, Lieutenant. I understand. Where will you be, sir?"

"Davies and I are going to try to buy us some extra time. We're going to the power control room to see if there's anything we can do to keep the power from coming on until we've got all this sorted out."

"But, sir," Johnson protested. "Isn't that..?"

"Interfering?" Sulu consulted the timepiece on the wall. Another seven hours until the first moonset. "Not yet."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"What are you doing here?" There was something unusual about Kahsheel's manner. Her words sounded somewhat slurred.

Chekov shifted the still unconscious Mras in his arms. Despite his lack of stature, the dwarf was rather heavy to lug around. "Difficult to explain," he gasped. "Do you mind if I come in?"

The kiani stood aside and let him pass through the curtained entrance into her bedroom. "Don't put that thing on the bed," she said, referring to the bleeding servant. It seemed to upset her no more than if the ensign had tracked muddy footprints across her clean floor.

Chekov put Mras gently down on the cool tiled floor of the bath. He and Johnson had ripped up most of his shirt to temporarily bandage the dwarf's wounds. Chekov ripped off another strip, soaked it in cold water and put it on the dwarf's forehead.

"Men just don't appreciate clothes," Kahsheel said, watching him from the doorway. Her statement was accompanied by a peculiar sniffing sound that made Chekov turn around and look at her.

"You've been crying?" It was hard to judge with Kibrians, but her face and eyes did look discolored.

"I've been drinking," she corrected, picking up a glass of clear liquid from beside her bed. "This stuff makes me want to cry."

The smell, although not strong, was unmistakably familiar to Chekov. "Vodka?"

"It was going to be a surprise for you," she said. "I was just going to try a little of it. It seems that it is not possible to just drink a little of it."

He turned back to Mras. He didn't know why he'd come back here. He told himself it was to get the dwarf away from the scene of the crime, but he wasn't sure now. After a moment, he heard the sniffing noise again.

When he looked back, big tears were running passively down the kiani's face.

He got up and went to her. "Maybe you shouldn't drink any more of this," he said, taking the glass out of her hands.

She put one hand on his shoulder as if to pull him towards her, then let her fingers run down his arm.

"You remember last night, don't you?" she asked sadly.

"Yes." He didn't look at her, but neither did he move away.

She let her fingers linger on the palm of his hand. "I suppose you want an explanation."

"Yes."

Holding his hand loosely, she led him over to the bed and sat down. "Do you know how I feel about you?"

"No."

"I know how you feel about me." She smiled. "You adore me."

"I'm not sure about that," he said, checking back towards the direction of his patient.

"No." She reached out and touched his cheek. "That's not true." She pulled him down towards her. He couldn't find it in his heart to resist. Her kiss tasted of vodka. "Despite everything, you adore me."

He was glad there weren't any listening devices in the room. "This isn't an explanation."

"Be patient," she admonished him with another kiss. "You see, I can understand the way you feel about me and enjoy it. But you can't understand or enjoy the way I feel about you."

"Which is?"

"I want to own you," she said, running a hand through his hair possessively. "I wish it could always be the way it was between us last night."

He took her hand away. "So you could share me with your friends?"

"No." She returned it. "Except for that. I want you for myself. I enjoy caring for you, controlling you. To me, it's natural that you're a servant. You're so impulsive, so ruled by your passions. You need someone to be responsible for you."

"Kahsheel…"

"But you can't accept that, can you? Your culture teaches you that those sort of feelings are disgusting."

"You should be able to accept me as an equal."

She smiled and shook her head. "But that would be so boring. Why don't you accept things between us the way they are? I could…"

"That would be impossible."

"I know," she sighed, then reached past him for her glass. "Let me get you a drink."

"I don't want it. You still haven't given me an explanation."

"The situation at this station has always been more politically complex than you Federation people are able to discern," she said, crossing to her little table and pouring two drinks with her back towards him. "The decision to build the station on this particular site was controversial…"

"Because it was previously the site of the dwelling of the ruling family?" he guessed, relieved that she was finally getting down to business.

"For many reasons," she said. She held out both glasses, allowing him to choose his own drink.

Chekov took this as a tacit acknowledgement of her previous attempts to drug him. He was so reassured by the gesture that he accepted one glass.

"You and I have never discussed my own political or religious beliefs," she said, sitting back down beside him.

"I wasn't aware you had any."

"Oh, I do…" Kahsheel drank half her large glassful in one swallow. "I do."

Chekov was still cautious enough to take only a small sip. "Do you care to discuss them now?"

She smiled at him strangely. "No," she answered, putting her arms around his neck. She held him tightly against her as she kissed him with an intensity that belied her implication that she was the more dispassionate of the two.

Chekov decided he'd point this out to her… if she ever decided to let him back up for air. She let her glass drop noisily to the floor and he followed suit. He'd almost had enough time to forget what he was going to say, when the kiani abruptly pulled away. She put her hand to her throat and gasped convulsively as if she couldn't catch her breath.

"Kahsheel?"

After gasping a few more times, she made a peculiar sighing noise and slumped forward against him.

"Kahsheel?" He shook her, but there was no response. There didn't seem to be any pulse under his hands when he moved them up to her neck. "Kahsheel?"

She definitely didn't seem to be breathing at all. He first thought of trying resuscitative procedures. However, when he moved her, the kiani's foot knocked against one of the glasses on the floor. Looking down at them, he remembered Kahsheel's usual modus operandi and noticed that he too was feeling light-headed and short of breath.

He rose and headed for the door, reasoning that if she'd poisoned both the drinks, the only hope for either of them lay with Johnson and the medikit.

"Hey!" Chekov didn't look back to see which of Kahsheel's servants had spotted him as he crossed to the door leading to the hallway. "Where do you think you're going? Stop!"

Chekov knew that it wasn't really wise for a potential poisoning victim to run, but there didn't seem to be an alternative. He was checking over his shoulder on his pursuer when he ploughed into some sort of obstacle — a large, fleshy, dark blue obstacle.

"But… but you're dead!" he protested.

A very living Gebain picked him up by the tattered front of his shirt. "And just what would make you think that?" he asked.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"I didn't think we'd ever get here," Davies sighed, leaning against the closed door of the power control room.

The only excuse the _Enterprise_ officers could come up with for being in the corridors was that they'd decided to use their unexpected downtime to tour the facility. That meant that they couldn't let any kiani they met on the way get the idea that they were in too much of a hurry to stand around and politely chat about transfer ratios for a few minutes. They'd met enough wandering kiani to drive a person to drink.

"Just don't ask me if I'm sure I'm doing the right thing," Sulu said, consulting his floor plan.

"I'm sure you're doing the right thing," she replied, patting him on the back.

"Thanks." He gave her a quick kiss as he refolded the plan. "The main controls are behind that door."

"I'm behind you all the way," Davies said, allowing him to precede her.

The first thing that Sulu realized upon entering was that there was someone already there. The second thing he realized was that the person was wearing his boots. The third thing that registered was that the person was carrying a native projectile weapon.

"Ah, Sulu," the person said, leveling the weapon at them. "I was so hoping you wouldn't come here."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lt. Johnson proves his worth as a team member. The dream-peddler makes another appearance.

Almost reflexively, Sulu stepped in front of Davies. The Kibrian smiled and gestured him back with his gun. "No, no, I'm afraid that I have the privilege of deciding who dies first."

"Uyal…" Although of a primitive design, the Kibrian weapon was quite deadly at this range. Sulu moved as far as he dared to Davies' right, making it harder for the Kibree to watch them both at once. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Nothing that you can prevent," the kiani answered pleasantly. "In fact, now that I consider, your presence here will only lend an air of authenticity to the proceedings. And now, if you don't mind, please put your hands behind your head."

"That's why you have my boots," Sulu said, nodding towards Davies to signal that she should comply also. "You're here to frame me."

"Hardly, after all, everyone knows that you no longer have your boots. I was intending to cast suspicion on someone with rather more reason to harbor a grudge." Uyal smiled at Sulu's reaction. "You really shouldn't waste your time trying to understand what I'm doing. You have so little of it left." The kiani moved to stand in front of the console. There was a small battery-powered unit hastily wired to the main controls. Uyal covered his two prisoners with the gun in his right hand while he punched commands into the system quickly and easily with his left.

Davies noted as he did so that the kiani was wearing thin gloves. His feet, shod in regulation Star Fleet gear, left greasy and easily identifiable footprints.

Following her eyes to his feet, Uyal obligingly displayed the stained sole of his borrowed boot. "A pity that the lieutenant has such an irresponsible servant who doesn't even clean his own boots properly, isn't it?"

"But you don't gain anything by incriminating Chekov," Sulu protested. He knew that the Kibrian's culturally indoctrinated abhorrence of personal violence was delaying his pulling the trigger. They had to keep the kiani talking.

"Oh, yes I do," Uyal returned easily, as he aimed the gun directly at the lieutenant's chest. "But I hardly expect you to appreciate my reasons."

"Then you aren't planning to destroy the station?" Davies asked, quickly splitting the kiani's focus. "You intend the evidence you are planting in this room to be found. You're simply sabotaging… the computers?"

"There's nothing simple about it, Miss Davies," Uyal replied, pressing another sequence of buttons. "When power is restored, the entire core will be destroyed. Some kiani will look no further than your ill-disciplined and ungrateful servant, while others may blame the group of Federation officers who have been disrupting the normal schedule of the station for the past few days. Either way, this should end, I sincerely hope, our ill-conceived alien alliances and mark the beginning of a return to traditional Kibrian ways and values."

"So now you're going to try to make it look like you interrupted us in the act," Sulu speculated.

"Not I. It will have to be some other loyal Kibrian who habitually goes about armed… and who will unfortunately be too unskilled to be able to identify or rectify the damage you have done." Uyal turned to Davies. "Of course I wouldn't attempt to destroy the station. Do you think I'm insane?"

"It's a fair question," Davies replied, looking down the barrel of his weapon. 

"Someone is planning to blow up the station," Sulu informed him.

"Oh, really?" Uyal seemed only marginally interested. "A ploy by the opposition, probably. You don't know about them, do you? I'm afraid the situation on this station is such that we kiani avoid talking politics with anyone other than our allies. Well, there are certain deluded individuals on Kibria, Lieutenant, who have pushed us away from our heritage with their lust for your technology. They are willing to go beyond your laws and ours to obtain what they want… apparently to the point of threatening to destroy this station. They won't go through with it, of course. This station is their crowning glory. They'd rather die than give it up. They're probably only threatening to do so in order to blackmail a few more shiny toys out of Federation hands."

"We know a good deal about the opposition," Sulu replied, seeing an opening to rattle the kiani. "For one thing, we know that your fiancee, Kahsheel, is one of the leaders."

"A leader? Is she really?" Uyal asked politely. "How enterprising of her. Of course, I was aware she was a member. I'd hate to think her reckless behavior with your Mister Chekov occurred because she actually found him attractive."

"You sound jealous," Sulu pushed.

"Jealousy is such a lower class emotion," Uyal chided him. "I hadn't thought of it before, but your death will leave poor Chekov in want of a master, won't it? I've always thought he'd make a good servant… under a firm hand, of course. It would be very amusing to own him. I hope I once more have sufficient resources when it comes time for bidding."

Sulu closed his eyes against a vision of Chekov with only the oblivious Johnson between him and the machinations of the Kibree.

"And that would tend to explain her meetings with Driant," Uyal continued softly to himself.

"Who?" Davies asked.

"The time for questions is now over, Miss Davies." Uyal gestured with the gun. "I'd like you both facing the wall, please."

"Uyal…" Sulu protested.

"Now, Lieutenant," Uyal repeated grimly, pointing his weapon at Davies.

For some reason, Davies smiled and moved a half-step forward. "I never noticed that you're ambidextrous, Uyal."

"Davies!" Sulu hissed.

"Are you really?" she asked teasingly, as if making a suggestive comment.

Sulu had no idea what she was up to, but she was succeeding in doing what he hadn't been able to. For once the loquacious kiani was dumb with surprise.

"I'd wager that you actually favor one hand over the other." Davies licked her lips as if in anticipation as Uyal's face went tight with anger. "Perhaps the left hand?"

Cold, murderous fury was in the kiani's eyes as he took aim at the ensign's head. Sulu seized the opportunity, throwing himself bodily over the console. The gun went off with a muffled report, bringing down a shower of ornate plasterwork from the ceiling. By the time the lieutenant had knocked the engineer out with a quick chop to the neck, Davies was already at work, ripping circuit boards out from under the console and replacing them back to front or upside down - anything to delay anyone attempting to bring the station's power supply back on line.

"Hand me some cable."

She yanked out a couple of metres. Sulu looped the material into a pair of impromptu handcuffs. Pulled into a sitting position and tied to the metal grille over a window, all it took was some second hand insulating tape to render Uyal completely helpless. 

"Can you reverse what he did?"

Davies frowned as her fingers flew over the console. "He wasn't lying. A massive power overload will hit the computer systems as soon as power is restored. It's going to take a few minutes to reroute."

"Take your time." Sulu frowned at the unconscious kiani as he retrieved his boots. "How did you know that what you were saying about his being left-handed was going to push him over the edge?"

"All men have a weakness." Davies smiled as she corrected another bit of cross wiring. "Women can sense these things."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"I d… don't know, sir." There was a curious prickling sensation in all the muscles around Chekov's mouth. His tongue felt larger than usual. Without wanting to, he clutched Gebain for support. "I think I may have…"

The major domo shook him into silence. "I think you may have helped your friend Mras try to kill me."

Chekov made a particular effort to drag a breath into lungs which had stiffened like neglected leather. "No…"

Gebain pulled him up onto his toes. "You know where the stunted little vermin is, don't you?" 

"Sir!" Kahsheel's servant, Nard, skidded indecorously to a halt. "Sir, I just caught him running out of my lady's apartment. He refused to stop when I tried to question him…"

The major domo lowered the ensign back to the floor as he paused a fraction of a second to re-evaluate the situation. "Where is your lady?" he asked in a more subdued tone, obviously not wishing to rouse the kiani's ire. 

"I don't know. She gave the entire staff the day off, not only the slaves. I had just stepped in to get an item I'd forgotten."

"Curious." The big Kibree tilted his head to one side as he examined the ensign. "Very curious. But regardless of where he was coming from, there's little doubt he's worse for the wear."

Chekov managed to stand on his own two feet with some difficulty. "I… must see… a doctor."

"Oh, you may need to see one after I've finished with you." Gebain clapped his hands, summoning one of his assistants.

"Sir?" came the almost instantaneous reply from down the corridor.

"Ijzo, fetch me a cane," Gebain ordered. "Nard, return to your lady's rooms. If she isn't there, check to see if this one's damaged or stolen anything. And you…" He grabbed Chekov, who was leaning unsteadily to one side, by the back of the neck. "You'd better tell me what you know about Mras."

Chekov closed his eyes and shook his head. "Can't," he said, over the loud buzzing inside his ears.

"Good," the Kibree said, dragging him towards one of the large ornamental chairs that dotted the corridors. "I'd rather beat it out of you. And after that, there will be an additional penalty to pay for being where you have no business being. And then I'm going to return you to your master and see what he has to say after he sees just how much peeva you've had this time."

"Not… peeva," Chekov gasped. He was beginning to feel as if he might explode if he couldn't force more air into his body.

"What's happening here, Mister Gebain?"

"Johnson…" Chekov tried to turn in the direction of this familiar voice. "…Help…"

"This slave has been caught violating station rules," Gebain replied, efficiently jerking him back into place with one hand while he accepted his stick from his assistant with the other. "I am preparing to discipline him. However, I could wait while you summon Lieutenant Sulu, if you feel that is necessary."

"No need for that." The meteorologist cleared his throat and straightened his uniform. "The lieutenant is busy at present. He has asked me to take care of Ensign Chekov for the time being."

"Very well." Gebain nodded to his assistant, who began to pull the heavy chair away from the wall.

"So…" Johnson held out his hand. "…if you'd let me have that cane…"

"Johnson… Don't… I…" Chekov protested with the little breath he had left as the major domo reluctantly released him and handed the long stick to the meteorologist.

"Quiet, please," Johnson said, stepping between the Kibree and his intended victim.

The cane snapped with a satisfying crack and the two halves clattered onto the floor.

Into the stunned silence, Chekov gasped, "Poisoned… I've… been… poisoned."

"What?" Ignoring Gebain's outraged expression, Johnson helped Chekov down to sit in the chair. "What did you say?" he demanded as he clicked on a medical scanner and hastily dialed the appropriate sensors.

"…Can't breathe… Kahsheel…"

Nard lurched dramatically back into the hallway. "Call the Investigators!" he cried, pointing at Chekov. "He's killed Kahsheel!"

Chekov looked up at Johnson. "…No…"

The kiani's servant spun away from Gebain and the Star Fleet officers towards a communications point, then stopped dead, remembering that they were inactive. Instead, he sprinted off down the corridor. 

Gebain folded his hand over Johnson's medical scanner.

"Now, wait just a moment…" Johnson protested as the major domo lifted it from his grasp.

"There are procedures we must follow now, Mister Johnson," Gebain explained coldly, as he snapped his fingers for his assistant. "Ijzo, go to Engineer Kahsheel's quarters, lock the door and return. Nard will inform the Director and she will alert the authorities."

Johnson crouched down beside his fellow ensign. Chekov was by now chalk-white. His breathing was agonized. The meteorologist's fingers registered a ridiculously sluggish pulse and cold, damp skin. "Did Kahsheel poison you?"

Chekov closed his eyes as he nodded, as if this was hard to admit.

"How did she do it?"

"…Vodka…"

Johnson frowned as he tried to puzzle out what 'watka' might be. "Pavel, you've got to speak Standard right now."

Chekov cursed people's inability to understand him because of his accent for what could very well be the last time in his life. "…Drink… the drink…"

"Okay, stay calm. We'll take some readings and get the antidote into you. You'll be just fine. Mister Gebain, I need my medical equipment to treat…"

"I'm afraid that won't be possible."

The ensign twisted in response to a new voice He rose quickly when he realized that it belonged to the Station Director. "Madame Director, I don't know what's happened here, but Mister Chekov is showing signs of respiratory distress. If he collapses, we may never discover…"

"Ma'am!" Ijzo returned. He stood with his mouth agape for a moment, as if overwhelmed at the prospect of reporting his tidings to someone so exalted.

"Yes?" the Director prompted reassuringly.

"Madame Director," the lower caste began, lowering his head respectfully. "Engineer Kahsheel is indeed dead. There were two glasses lying on the floor of her bedchamber. I didn't touch them. I didn't touch anything. And there was blood everywhere…"

The Director nodded. "You were quite correct, Ijzo, to respect the evidence. And you, Ensign Johnson, will also understand that it is vital that the evidence is not compromised."

"Yes, Ma'am. Of course," Johnson agreed, then pointed to Gebain. "However, my scanner is not evidence and I do need it."

She nodded to Gebain, who, instead of returning the scanner, confiscated Johnson's medikit also, then placed both items into the Director's long, slim hands. "I don't think you understand, Ensign. If you treat this servant, you will be confusing matters."

"Ma'am, Chekov may die in a matter of minutes if you don't return my equipment," Johnson protested.

The Director shook her head. "This servant is evidence in a case of murder."

"This servant is a living person!" Johnson rose and stepped towards her, reaching for the medikit. His height equaled the Director's, but he didn't quite have her imperious presence… or the major domo's sheer bulk. Gebain firmly pushed the ensign's out-thrust left hand back to his side.

"Of course." The Director's tone was polite, but she eyed his hand disdainfully, as if the meteorologist had just committed some terrible faux pas. "I appreciate his value to Lieutenant Sulu. I assure you he will be attended to. However, you must desist from interfering with him until he has been examined by an Investigating Surgeon."

Johnson swallowed his anger. "And how long…"

"The Investigators have been summoned," she interrupted dismissively. "They are aware that the situation is serious and politically sensitive. They will be expeditious."

Johnson turned at the sound of another Kibree rapidly approaching. Unfortunately it was only the Station Manager.

"Ah, Datvin," the Director greeted him, apparently thinking the situation called for the presence of another bureaucrat. "Good. Are the Investigators on their way?"

"They are short-staffed, due to the holiday, Madame Director." Datvin looked down at Chekov, who had his eyes squeezed shut and clutched at his chest as he noisily struggled for each breath. "Perhaps I should call the Medical Officer."

"J…ah…son." Chekov's lips were almost as blue as Gebain's.

"Don't worry, Chekov. I'm here."

"Datvin, have this…" The Director waved a hand in Chekov's direction. "…person confined under supervision."

"Ma'am!" Johnson exploded as the Station Manager signaled for assistance to the members of the small crowd of onlookers that had gradually gathered. "Chekov must have immediate medical attention. You appear to be assuming his guilt without any…"

"Ensign Johnson." The Director held up a finger to ensure that she had his attention. "However the facts of the case may subsequently be established, this servant has either poisoned Kahsheel - in which case he must be confined for everyone's safety - or he has been poisoned by whoever did actually poison the engineer, thus making him a vital witness and quite conceivably in danger as a result. I have ordered that he should be impounded at least as much for his own protection as anyone else's."

"Wait." Johnson stepped in front of the burly Kibree poised to lift Chekov out of the chair.

"Ensign…" Datvin put a restraining hand on his shoulder. "You are simply slowing the process down now. If you truly have any concern for your superior's servant, you will…"

"If you don't allow me to treat this man immediately, I will refuse you access to any of the files and programs I have written during my time here." The words were out of Johnson's mouth before he had time to consider them. "I protect all the files I work on with a personal code. Anyone who attempts to break that code will discover that they have crashed your entire computer system and wiped every byte of data and programming."

The Director bristled. "You have no authority to even threaten to do such a thing, Ensign. Lieutenant Sulu will…"

"Lieutenant Sulu may go to hell and take you with him, ma'am," Johnson interrupted heatedly. "If I am forced to stand here and watch my fellow officer needlessly die, I will see that this station pays dearly."

Behind him, Chekov began to make the peculiar hiccuping noise that Kahsheel had made just before collapsing. Johnson suppressed the urge to turn to him and instead kept his eyes locked on the Director's narrow gaze.

When the meteorologist held his hand out this time, she placed the medikit in it, her face carved from stone. 

"Gebain, clear these people away from this area," she demanded. "Why are they loitering in the corridors? See that none of the evidence is disturbed."

Johnson paid no attention to her attempts at saving face. The scanner was already feeding him information. He loaded a hypo one-handedly.

"I can't see what it is, Chekov, but we can control the symptoms. It's going to be all right. Don't worry. You're going to be fine…" He wasn't even sure that Chekov could hear him as he went on mechanically intoning reassurance and pumping one drug after another into the Russian.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"Hold on - come here!"

Sulu turned back from the door that led into one of the main station thoroughfares, his hand still ready to push it open.

"You look like you've been in a fight," Davis chided. "We don't want to make anyone suspicious…" 

The lieutenant patiently allowed Davies to brush his hair down and pull his tunic straight. As she finished he considered kissing her, but decided against it. After all, he now had a dead bailiff, a badly injured slave and Chekov to worry about. While he contemplated these difficulties, she kissed him.

"Chekov…" he hinted.

Davies sighed. "I thought men only came out with the wrong name when they were drunk."

"I can see neither of you are ever going to let me forget this," he said, taking her arm and guiding her through the door. "Now, which way to Kahsheel's quarters?"

"Roughly this way." Davies pointed. "We're going there?"

The confrontation with Uyal had given Sulu a taste for gunboat diplomacy. "I think it would be best if I have this out with Kahsheel face to face…"

He fell silent as the familiar, ominous figure of the Director emerged from around the corner of the hallway. "You were intending to go and speak to Engineer Kahsheel, Lieutenant Sulu?"

"Yes, ma'am." Sulu massaged his heart back down out of his throat, remembering that the Director's office was just down the hallway from here. Their meeting here was probably just a coincidence.

"May I ask on what subject?" the Director asked, her tone particularly grim.

"Uh, a private matter… having to do with my servant."

The Director appeared to give this explanation lengthy consideration. Sulu felt panic that he could ill afford bubbling up inside him. Had Kahsheel found Chekov and the dwarf in her quarters? Had Gebain's body been discovered? These were questions he couldn't ask but needed answers to before he could take action.

"Lieutenant." The Director pointed towards her office like a schoolmaster directing an erring youth to a disciplinary conference. "You and I have vital matters to discuss."

"Why, what's happened?" Sulu countered, hoping he didn't look anywhere near as guilty as he felt.

The Director pointedly made no reply as she turned to Davies. "Ensign, you will wait in your quarters until the lieutenant requires you."

Davies looked to Sulu for confirmation of this dismissal. 

"Go to my quarters and wait there, Davies." His face registering a calm he didn't possess, he followed the Director up the hall and into her inner sanctum, his heart pounding against his ribs.

She shut the door very firmly. "Have a seat, please, Lieutenant." 

Two of the massive carved chairs were drawn up to a desk large enough for a respectable game of table tennis. The overall proportions of the room, along with the Director's inhuman height, made Sulu feel about nine years old. He sat down and looked at the sheaf of pale yellow papers that broke up the expanse of polished wood.

"Your report on the recommended route for terraforming Eenos."

Sulu looked up at her. "I haven't written it yet."

"You misunderstand me. This…" She tapped the papers. "…is your report. All it requires is your signature."

Sulu clamped his mouth shut until he sorted out the questions that really needed to be asked. He had expected this, of course, but not so quickly or so blatantly.

"The time for niceties has passed, Lieutenant," the Director informed him, folding her hands behind her back as she crossed to her side of the massive desk. "Suffice it to say, I have reasons that motivate me to do whatever is necessary to ensure that the contract for construction of the plant and accommodation on Eenos is awarded to Ffafner Associates. This report will be enough to bring the relevant Government Committee to the correct conclusion. All it requires is your signature confirming that Ffafner meet the necessary technical criteria."

Sulu reached out and pulled the report towards him. It gave him time to think and it was always conceivable that the Ffafner proposal did meet the criteria. From what he remembered, though, it was the weakest of the five bids.

"And if I don't?" he said, asking the only question that remained. 

The Director folded her hands on the table before her. "Your servant, Chekov, has been arrested pending further investigation of the poisoning of Engineer Kahsheel."

The report dropped from Sulu's fingers. "What?"

"Your servant has not been formally accused," the Kibree continued calmly. "However, he was seen leaving her quarters, hastily, just before her body was found. The poison was administered in a Terran beverage. Two glasses were found which had evidently contained the poisoned drink. Your servant claims to have been poisoned himself. As yet, we have reached no conclusions."

Sulu swallowed hard. It didn't sound like it would take a genius to reach a conclusion based on that recital of facts. "Kahsheel is dead?"

The Director nodded. "Very much so. The Medical Officer reports that the amount of poison found in her system was sufficient to kill several adult Kibree almost instantly…"

"And Chekov?"

"We have summoned an Investigating Surgeon to examine him. I allowed your Ensign Johnson to administer emergency treatment for the effects of the poison." The Director frowned mightily. "However, I did so under duress. I can appreciate that Ensign Johnson was in an emotional state, however there is no excuse for his conduct. I warn you for the last time, Lieutenant, I will not be threatened or treated disrespectfully by your subordinates…"

"Yes, Director, of course," Sulu agreed automatically as he rose, wondering what the hell Johnson could have said to her and why. "I will speak to him. However I want to see Chekov right now."

"Mister Sulu." The Kibree folded her arms. "The law must take its course. Your servant is both a suspect and material evidence in a murder investigation. Strictly speaking, I have been overindulgent in allowing Johnson access to the prisoner. I may have to withdraw that privilege."

"I said I'd speak to him," Sulu acknowledged impatiently. "He was probably just…"

The Director put one hand up for silence. "Lieutenant, you don't appreciate the gravity of what I'm saying. Ensign Johnson has not been able to neutralize the toxin in your servant's system. He is merely maintaining life despite its effects."

"I see." It took a lot to bring Sulu to the verge of losing his temper. This was just about to do the trick. He picked up the stack of papers from the table in front of him. "So I sign this report or you'll let Chekov die?"

"If you sign this report now," the Kibree answered evenly, "it will be considered by the Committee early tomorrow. Their decision will be binding. And I will be grateful."

Sulu had to admit that the Director had a certain skill for blackmail. She'd clearly communicated her threat entirely by implication. If their conversation had been recorded or overheard, nothing she'd said put her outside Kibrian law or custom.

"I want to see Chekov," he replied, tossing the papers back onto the desk.

"Very well." The Director leaned forward and swept the scattered sheets together. "I will permit you to do so."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

The outer office of the Security Area didn't look that different from any other office on the station. It might have been a little less tidy than most. There were several desks with half-completed paperwork stacked carelessly on them and blank computer screens. Two inner doors were both ajar. Sulu reflected as he passed through unchallenged that security didn't seem to be a very high priority.

He followed the sound of Johnson's slightly nasal murmur through one of the doors into an inner area. The walls were lined with lockers. One corner had been fenced off with floor-to-ceiling bars. Because this was Kibria, the black metal bars were decorated with elaborate curlicues. It looked like Chekov was being held inside a grille-work porch straight from Old New Orleans French Quarter.

The cell contained a narrow bench, sanitary facilities and a small barred and shuttered window. A closed Starfleet medikit lay on the table near the door. Johnson was standing by the closed door to the cell, apparently holding hands with the prisoner on the other side.

Chekov looked up.

"Lieutenant," he said, waking the Kibrian law enforcement officer dozing at a desk near the door. The Kibrian hastily rose to inspect the new visitor.

Sulu could now see that Johnson was actually taking Chekov's pulse. Despite the direness of the occasion, the lieutenant couldn't help smiling at his friend. "I thought you were at death's door."

"No, he's fine, Lieutenant," Johnson answered for his patient. "Just sit down now, Pavel." 

"I…"

"No, sit down," the meteorologist ordered before his charge could complete his objection. "I don't want you to get dizzy. Do you feel dizzy?"

"A little, perhaps," Chekov admitted grudgingly.

Despite Johnson's assurances as Sulu drew closer he could see that Chekov didn't look at all well. The ensign was very pale. There were dark circles under his eyes. "Go ahead and sit down. I'm sure our friend here can scare up a few chairs for us."

The Kibrian guard gave him a less than obliging look.

"We'll be back in a moment," Johnson informed Chekov, taking Sulu by the arm. "I don't want to talk in front of this guy."

Johnson ushered Sulu out of the room with such decisiveness that the lieutenant simply played along. Presumably Johnson was too flustered to realize he only had to turn off his translator. 

Outside, in the main office, Johnson put a warning finger to his lips. "I don't want to upset Chekov. But I can't leave him too long…"

"What's the problem?"

"I can't identify the poison they used. I think it's related to the type of drugs they once used to prepare people for cryogenic sleep. His metabolism is crashing down to nothing. I've pumped him full of stimulants, but I can't keep him conscious for long. If you want to talk to him, it'll have to be now."

"How long can you keep giving him the stimulants?" Sulu said, asking the question he had a good feeling he didn't want to hear the answer to.

Johnson swallowed hard. "Not indefinitely, sir."

Sulu put the part of himself that reacted emotionally to the news that his friend was probably going to die on hold for the moment as he nodded.

"And I don't have unlimited supplies," Johnson continued. "We could certainly use some unprecedented cooperation from the Kibrians right now."

"I don't think that's likely. What did you say to the Station Director?"

Johnson's face went scarlet. "I… I insisted that she let me treat Chekov. I'm sorry, sir, but I threatened to crash the computer system if she didn't let me. It was only a bluff, but…"

"But it worked." Sulu patted the meteorologist on the arm. "Don't get carried away with that sort of thing, though."

Johnson's eyes went involuntarily back to the occupant of the cell in the inner room as an object lesson on the consequences of such impulsiveness. "Yes, sir."

"Have you got anything in the medikit that could knock out a Kibrian for four or five hours?"

Johnson raised an eyebrow. "Yes… Why would you…"

"Don't ask. And about the help here…" Sulu nodded towards the Security Officer who was watching them through bright narrow eyes. "Good point. Turn your translator off. I'll tell him anything he needs to know."

"Yes, sir."

As they returned, Chekov was in the process of moving to lie down on the hard wooden bench.

"Wait, Chekov," Johnson ordered with an intensity that undermined his cheerful attempt to imply that all was well. "Don't lie down yet. Don't go to sleep."

"Stand up, sit down, don't stand up, don't lie down," Chekov complained wearily, as he rose and crossed to the bars, automatically offering the meteorologist his arm. "Make up your mind, Mister Johnson."

"You're doing fine." Johnson hissed another hypo full of stimulant into it. "If that tingling comes back, just keep moving."

"What happened with Kahsheel, Chekov?" Sulu asked.

The ensign paused to take in a deep breath as the medication entered his system. Sulu could see the drug take effect, reviving and strengthening his fellow officer. "I took Mras to Kahsheel's quarters via an underground entrance. I hoped to avoid detection that way."

The lieutenant merely nodded. There didn't seem to be much point in debating the wisdom of Chekov's choice to take Mras to Kahsheel's room right now.

"Kahsheel was acting very strangely," Chekov continued, as Johnson loaded another hypo and handed it to Sulu. "I believe she was intoxicated."

"She was drunk?" Sulu slipped the hypo inside his sleeve without comment.

"Yes. She'd obtained a quantity of vodka — presumably from one of our replicators… I didn't think of asking at the time…" Chekov looked suddenly very tired again.

"Why vodka?" Sulu pressed, hating himself for doing so. "Because she knew you liked it and would drink some?"

Chekov shook his head. "I don't know. Since she was drinking it herself, I failed to anticipate that both glasses might be…" He broke off and shook his head at the floor. "I cannot believe she would do such a thing."

"Lieutenant…" Johnson didn't take his eyes off the scanner he was holding near to Chekov's chest. "I'm no expert on Kibrian culture, but from my understanding, if someone of high caste is threatened with scandal, exposure…"

"They often opt for suicide over public disgrace," Sulu finished for him. "She knew we were on to her. Did she seem suicidal?"

"Yes," Chekov admitted, although it visibly cost him to do so. "Her conversation was disjointed. She seemed despondent. I believe she had been crying. She attempted to persuade me to go away with her…"

"One way or another," Sulu added ironically.

"I cannot believe she intended to harm me," Chekov protested loyally, despite the fact that he had been both eyewitness and victim of the deed.

"I can't believe I didn't foresee that she'd try this." Sulu crossed his arms. "It's straight from classical Kibrian literature. Poisoning you and herself with your favorite drink is a scene directly from their version of Romeo and Juliet."

"I've never liked that ballet," Chekov said, naturally thinking of Tchaikovsky before Shakespeare.

"Does the name Driant ring a bell?" Sulu asked, remembering the possible accomplice Uyal had mentioned.

Chekov leaned his shoulder against the bars wearily.

"Wait…" Sulu snapped his fingers. "Yes… Yes it does! Remember in the kideok… the guy who started the whole thing with the magistrate and was fined… Wasn't his name Driant?"

"It could have been," Chekov replied as he passively allowed Johnson to take his wrist again.

"What happened to…" The slave's name embarrassingly slipped his mind. "Uh… that dwarf?"

"Mras was lying on the floor unconscious when I left…"

"…But no one who entered later reported seeing him," Johnson finished for his patient. "Although one of the servants did say something about there being a lot of blood in the apartment."

"He must have revived," Sulu theorized. "Saw Kahsheel's body, figured out that wasn't a good place to be and took the underground passage out."

"I wouldn't think he was in any condition to leave unaided," Johnson objected.

"Gebain isn't dead," Chekov reported with an accusing look at his doctor. "At all."

"I didn't even look at him properly. I didn't think it was anything to do with us," Johnson protested. "He'd been stabbed. He was dead."

"He got over that very quickly," Chekov observed.

"So Mras is hiding out somewhere," Sulu continued, "wounded, and despite Gebain's remarkable recovery, in very deep trouble. Is this going to prevent him from going through with his plan to blow up the station?"

"I wouldn't be certain of that. He…" When Chekov moved to shift his weight, his legs unexpectedly failed him and he fell against the bars.

"Hey, hey!" The Kibrian Security officer rose from his desk as both Sulu and Johnson reached through the bars to support their fellow officer. "None of that. Back away from there. If he can't stand up by himself, he'd just better sit down."

"I would be glad to if Mister Johnson will permit me," Chekov replied ironically in Kibrian as he struggled to regain his footing.

"He says he wants to sit down," Sulu translated for the meteorologist.

"Go ahead." Johnson supported him as far into the cell as his long arms would allow. "Are you feeling dizzy?"

"Very dizzy." Chekov groped his way to the bench and sat down heavily on it. "I think I may lie down whether you wish me to or not, Johnson."

"Not that way," Johnson objected hastily as his patient slid down to one side. "Keep your head to the right so I can reach you if I need to."

"Surely my feet would do just as well," Chekov grumbled tiredly as he reversed himself.

"Hey, keep back from there," the Security officer ordered as Johnson crossed to the bars closest to where Chekov was lying. "Stop reaching through. If he can't reach out, then just let him be."

"He wants you to move away, Mister Johnson," Chekov said, closing his eyes as Johnson waved the scanner over him again.

"Well, he can just…"

"Keep your head, Johnson," Sulu cautioned, then turned to the Kibrian. "It's all right. He's only taking his pulse."

The guard was at that point distracted by the entrance of a low-caste messenger with a note for him to read.

"If I could sleep a few minutes…" Chekov was saying.

"No, no." Johnson tapped his face lightly. "Fight it a little longer. Try to stay with us."

"We found Uyal in the power control room," Sulu said, hoping to restore the ensign's interest in the conversation. "It seems your theory about the power struggle between reactionary and radical factions in the population is correct, Chekov. Uyal was acting on behalf of the reactionaries. They were planning to destroy the computer system, not the station itself."

"You were able to prevent them?" Johnson asked, transferring his monitoring to the pulse in Chekov's neck. His face was drawn with worry now that his patient was no longer paying attention.

"Yes, and Davies junked the power controls. It'll be a long time before they'll be able to get anything back on line." Sulu was beginning to be concerned that Chekov hadn't reopened his eyes. "Mras' plan had nothing to do with Uyal, though. Either he's working for the radicals or on his own. Uyal seemed to think that the radicals might threaten to blow up the station in order to bluff us into giving up more technological information…"

"Not a bluff," Chekov said softly, but with great certainty.

"Excuse me, sirs." The Security officer held out the written note that had been delivered to him. "But the two of you will have to leave now. Orders of the Director."

"Yes," Sulu replied, accepting the note in his most authoritative manner. "I was expecting this. Very well, I will go meet with her immediately. I'll have Mister Johnson see to it that…"

"You misunderstood, sir," the guard said firmly, taking the note back. "Both of you are to leave."

"My subordinate will remain and see to my property," Sulu retorted like a kiani shocked by the officer's presumption. "Surely you realize that I am within my rights to do this?"

The Kibrian tucked the note inside his tunic, unimpressed by Sulu's imitation of an authority figure. "My orders are that both of you leave immediately."

"I'll take this up with the Director," Sulu assured the guard threateningly as he walked over to tap Johnson on the shoulder. "Come on Johnson, they want us out of here."

"I can't leave him, sir. He's sleeping now, but the danger of his falling into a coma is…"

"Fifteen minutes, Johnson," Sulu promised. "The Director is just trying to pressure me. I'll have you back in here as soon as I speak with her. Give him another dose…"

"It's not safe, Lieutenant," Johnson objected with uncharacteristic intensity. "I'm playing with fire here. It's a tightrope…" 

"Johnson…" Sulu interrupted, stopping the ensign short of bringing on the lion tamers and the rest of the circus. 

"Listen, I have my orders," the Kibrian Security officer said over him, nervously fingering his holstered weapon. "Either both of you are out of here in the next ten seconds or I put you in there with him."

"It's not wise to threaten me," Sulu warned in Kibrian before turning back to Johnson. "Ensign, we're leaving now. Give Chekov the shot. You can either wait outside or go see if you can get through to the Medical Officer. He may be willing to help us."

"Yes, sir." Neither Johnson nor the Security officer looked happy about the situation as the meteorologist extracted the necessary drugs from the medikit and applied the hypo to Chekov's shoulder. "If he regains consciousness, it would be best if he just remains lying down quietly."

"When my servant wakes up, see that he rests quietly," Sulu ordered the Security officer as he ushered Johnson to the door. "If you notice anything in the least bit out of the ordinary, I strongly recommend that you send for the Medical Officer immediately — because I'm holding you personally responsible for my servant's health." 

The officer was so flustered by this threat of personal accountability that he'd answered "Yes, sir," before he realized he'd done so. 

"Meet me here in fifteen minutes, Johnson. If I'm delayed…" Sulu took in a deep breath and sized up the meteorologist. "…then use your initiative."

"All right," Johnson agreed, looking none too confident of his ability in this respect..

"Great." Sulu patted him on the shoulder before setting off down the corridor. "Don't let them get the upper hand, but be careful."

Johnson stared after the lieutenant's retreating back. "Yes, sir. I'll do that."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Davies was pacing like a caged tiger when Sulu opened the door to his quarters. "What's gone wrong now?"

"I haven't got time to talk," he said, kissing her and handing her the hypo Johnson had prepared for him. "This should keep Uyal out for several hours. Make sure you're not seen."

"Yes, sir," she answered obediently, then caught him by the sleeve. "Sulu, what's happened?"

"Kahsheel's dead," he told her, deciding it was best to keep his team as well informed of the situation as possible, no matter how dismal the situation looked. "She poisoned herself and Chekov."

"Chekov's..?"

"He's alive, but we may still lose him." The emotions the lieutenant was keeping in check made a bold move to break free. He cleared his throat. "Even if he pulls through, there's enough circumstantial evidence to charge him with Kahsheel's murder. They've got him locked up right now."

"Oh, no." Davies eyes went to the Kibrian timepiece. "And only five and a half hours until he reckoned the station was set to blow up… I suppose we'll have to try our hand at jailbreaking now."

"Yeah." Sulu kissed her one more time for her optimism before turning to the door. "If we need to. Look, see if you can do anything to locate Mras. He's gone missing."

"I don't know how much I'll be able to do," Davies said, following him out. She then pointed down the hallway. "But she might be able to lend a hand."

Through the open doorway to Chekov's quarters, Sulu could see a blue-skinned serving woman busily folding sheets. "What's she doing here? They're supposed to have the day off."

Davies shrugged. "One of Chekov's lady friends come to visit, I suppose. I'm ashamed to say I didn't think twice about her being there at first, but then it came to me that the servants were all on holiday…"

"Excuse me," Sulu called, walking quickly towards the open door. "Excuse me, Miss…"

The blue-skinned woman froze in her tracks. Although she was taller than either Sulu or Davies, she cowered in their presence.

"Look, are you here to see Chekov?"

The servant made no response other than to look furtively about for an escape route.

"It's fine for you to be here," Sulu assured her quickly, not having the time to sound patient and kind. "I'm not angry with you at all. In fact, I need your help. I need to find a servant called Mras. He's a short little fellow…"

"…With a beard," Davies added helpfully. "We need to speak to him."

The blue-skinned woman bit her lips and kept her eyes on the floor.

"Come on, lady" Sulu pleaded, out of patience with artificial Kibrian social distinctions. "Chekov's in very big trouble right now. He's been arrested. He's been poisoned. He may die. If you're a friend of his…"

"The Feddie…" The servant looked up for the first time. "…die?"

"Yes."

"Oh!" The Kibrian covered her mouth with her hands, but continued to utter little cries as she ducked past the two Enterprise officers and out the door. "Oh, oh, oh!"

"What now?" Davies asked.

"See if you can catch up to her," Sulu ordered, pushing the ensign in the direction the servant had fled. "I've got to go be blackmailed."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Sulu laid the report back down on the Director's desk, trying to achieve the air of a man who had all the time in the world, rather than one who knew he had five and a half more hours before this station blew up, an unknown amount of time before Chekov ceased to respond to stimulants and only ten more minutes until Johnson began exercising his initiative. "It's possible that I would be happy to sign this anyway. If you give me enough time to review the proposal…"

"Since you are going to sign," the Kibrian interrupted, implacable, "why not do it now?" 

"If Ffafner does turn out to be incompetent…" The lieutenant crossed his arms. "…then I won't be the one who will be left to suffer the consequences, will I?"

"No," she replied with icy self-confidence. "You won't."

"However, the lives and livelihoods of many Kibrians as well as many Federation citizens would be endangered by incompetent management of this project." Sulu smiled at her. "I wouldn't want that on my conscience."

The Director pushed an ornate writing implement across the desktop towards him. "Your conscience is your own affair, Lieutenant."

"Of course, you know this isn't the only report I'm preparing," Sulu said, folding his hands instead of picking up the pen. "I am in the middle of writing one now on the advisability of future joint ventures with Kibria. As you may know, some rather powerful people in Star Fleet feel that Kibrian social practice and custom make such projects morally dubious as well as uncertain in outcome and unacceptably risky for the personnel involved."

"How is your servant, Mister Sulu?" The Director changed the subject pointedly. "I heard he was still very ill. The Investigators are anxious that he recover sufficiently to stand trial."

"The Investigators may be disappointed," Sulu replied grimly. "There's very little we can do for him."

"Oh?" The Director seemed surprised by the information — unpleasantly surprised. "I'm quite sorry to hear that."

Sulu had calculated that she would be. If Chekov died, her leverage with him would be gone. He reasoned that the only way to get any help from her was to pretend there was no hope. He prayed he was overstating matters.

"Then I'm sure you're anxious to return to him." The Kibrian pulled the papers to her side of the desk. "I won't detain you here any longer with this for the time being. And I will see what I can do about recruiting the services of our Chief Medical Officer."

"Thank you, Madame Director," Sulu replied in a tone free from any trace of gratitude as he rose.

"Report to me when your servant's condition stabilizes," she ordered, as if confident it would. "We will discuss the matter of the Ffafner contract further at that time. Lieutenant, you will make a decision about this before the end of this day."

Sulu didn't like the way she was giving in so easily. Perhaps if she was in the reactionaries' camp, she was assuming that she still had Uyal's frame-up plan to fall back on.

"Madame Director," he promised. "I assure you I am giving it all the consideration it deserves."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Davies was standing outside his quarters waiting for him when Sulu got back from seeing that Johnson was allowed in to tend the still unconscious Chekov. "Don't tell me Uyal got away," he begged her wearily as he approached.

"He's sleeping like a babe," she reassured him. "Although I've no idea how we're going to get him out of there or what we'll do with him. How's Chekov?"

"The same."

Davies sighed, obviously wishing for better news. "I found that Gebain isn't very dead anymore. I saw him on his way to hospital just now, looking a bit ill, but quite well for a corpse, actually."

"Yeah…" Sulu smiled, grateful to be diverted. "It looks like we're going to have to revoke Johnson's medical licence."

"Any more good news you've neglected to tell me? Like perhaps Kahsheel's done the same, or the _Enterprise_ has just entered the system?"

"I'm afraid not. Any luck finding Mras or the woman who was here before?"

"No joy with Mras, but as for the other one…" Davies jerked her thumb towards the door behind her. "She found me. She was waiting here when I got back. And she's brought a friend with her who's a bit more talkative."

Sulu raised his eyebrows. "A friend?"

"I hope you can make out what they're saying, for I surely can't," Davies said, opening the door for him. "As well as I can tell they think Mras is a despicable little fellow and we'd be best off avoiding him."

"I'm sure they're right," Sulu confided to her as he walked in.

He was greeted by the sight of two tall slave-women immediately jumping to their feet and bowing their heads respectfully.

"Sit down, please," he requested firmly. "Make yourselves comfortable. I appreciate your coming here like this."

After exchanging an uncertain glance between themselves, the two women knelt down on the floor before the lieutenant.

"Please, sir," said the green-skinned woman who he assumed to be the talkative friend. "The Feddie you took property of, he is..?"

"Mister Chekov's condition hasn't changed." Signalling to Davies to do likewise, Sulu sat down cross-legged in front of the two women. "He's still in danger. I need to contact a servant that I believe you know. His name is Mras…"

"Mras is giving aught but harm to the Feddie," the green-skinned woman protested hotly. "He swagged him with peeva at the pay of the curly red one and set him with a jeery for Station Manager."

"The Feddie near copped licks for thieving by Mras' plan this morn," the blue-skinned woman reminded her companion. 

"Aye." This seemed to trouble the first woman. "I take shame that I had hand in that… and in the last trouble…"

Davies and Sulu exchanged despairing looks at this catalog of incomprehensible misdemeanors and systematic betrayal.

"What last trouble?" Davies asked. "The trouble with Kahsheel?"

At the mention of the kiani's name both Kibree spat on their fingers and made a sign in the air — a curse on the departed as far as Sulu was able to interpret it.

"I take no knowledge that the curly red one had aught to do with it," the green-skinned woman answered, then raised grief-stricken eyes to the lieutenant. "Is there truth, sir that she's copped the Feddie as slag for her in Afterworld?"

"Well, she tried to - if I understand you correctly," Sulu replied. "But that's not happened yet and I don't intend for it to happen. Now what was this last trouble that you were talking about?"

"At Mras' pay, I dulled the Feddie with peeva and kepir then made dally with him. I take shame at so doing, but I was taken so sweet at his sight…" The servant bit her lip, unable to continue for a moment.

"I, too," her friend commiserated.

"At Mras' plan, I would take the Feddie to meet this one…" The servant indicated her companion. "…and have sport with him until Sitag, who takes property of me, would be catching us at it and take a great temper, giving notice that you make a proper recompense… I lost heart for it, though. But Mras made plans that Sitag should find of what I did do. I gave task of this one to give warning to the Feddie… not knowing that he… lies…"

The Kibrian couldn't get any further with her tale and had to pause to weep.

"This thing isn't translating worth a damn," Davies said in Standard, turning off her translator. "I'm lost. What happened."

"It's hard to tell," Sulu replied in the same language, "but I think there was a plan to get Chekov caught in a compromising situation with these two."

"Oh, my." Davies couldn't suppress the expression of distaste that crossed her face. Their grief didn't do anything to improve the Kibrian women's looks.

"If they'd gone through with it and her master had discovered them and objected - and it sounds like he would have - I would have been liable to pay a heavy fine. For what I couldn't pay in cash, the authorities have the right to seize my possessions and sell them at auction to make up the difference."

"Chief among your possessions being Chekov," Davies said, catching on quickly. "That would render us more likely to sell coveted pieces of technology."

"Or make a deal with my friend the Director to have the fine reduced," Sulu pointed out.

Davies sighed. "The more we sort things out, the more they stack the deck against us."

Sulu turned back to the Kibrian women. "All this just makes it more vital that I speak with Mras."

"Mras takes hiding in catacombs," the green-skinned woman replied, wiping away a tear. "You'll not go there. The kirrie who puts foot in catacombs takes life in hand."

"So Gebain takes knowledge now." The blue-skinned woman smiled despite her distress.

"He'd lie cold if not for Selrideen's pity," her companion agreed.

Davies snapped her translator back off. "Isn't Selrideen the name of the station?"

"It's also the name of a figure in local mythology," Sulu replied.

"Gebain took drug — mad to make revenge with split belly," the green-skinned woman was commenting.

"He gives groan for it now in sick bed," her companion replied mirthfully. "Were I Selrideen, I'd not give him patch, pump him with kvurr and leave him to rage. The pale Feddie was right to leave him lie."

"Wait a minute…" Sulu interrupted. This last made the major domo's rescuer sound less than godlike. "Is this Selrideen a servant?"

"No," the women answered almost in unison. 

"Is he a doctor?"

"No."

"Who is Selrideen?" Davies asked, trying to cut to the heart of the matter.

The two women looked at each other. "Selrideen is Selrideen," the first woman informed her.

"Well, that clears that up," Davies said ironically.

However, this seemed to spark something in the blue-skinned woman's eyes.

"Selrideen," she whispered to her companion significantly.

"Su," the other exclaimed, as if that had communicated volumes. "The Feddie takes need of the dream-peddler. Sir, you need take speech with Selrideen."

"I might," Sulu replied, nearly at his wits end with these two, "but first you've got to tell me, who is Selrideen?"

There was a knock at the door.

"Oh, God," the lieutenant groaned/prayed in Standard. "Not more, not now."

He opened the door to find an oddly dressed, cinnamon-hued Kibrian male waiting on his threshold.

"Selrideen," the green-skinned woman introduced him in a whisper.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Johnson took a pace backwards as the Medical Officer came out of the holding cell. The black barred door shut behind him with a hollow metallic click.

"Unfortunate," the Kibree commented quietly. "Most unfortunate. And not only for the victim." 

Johnson didn't reply. There wasn't really anything to say. The room seemed suddenly unfamiliar to him as he looked around, as if all the colors had been changed when he wasn't looking.

The doctor's eye had fallen on the medikit. Seeing him standing there, Johnson felt an angry urge to lash out at him. He smothered it. "You wanted to borrow some of our technology."

The Medical Officer looked away guiltily. "For one of my patients. An isolated tragedy. Of great importance to the family involved, but of no broader significance… He told you this?"

Johnson looked briefly back towards the cell. There was no point protecting Chekov now. "He said that the Station Manager threatened him. He said that you…"

"I did tell Datvin that it wouldn't work," the Kibree interrupted, as if embarrassed to be reminded of his part in the incident. "I favored his simply asking whether you would make an exception on benevolent grounds."

Johnson was beginning to figure out why he was feeling angry. "And with so much benevolence being laid out all around us, how could we refuse?"

The Kibree had to look away again. "This is a constrained society, Mister Johnson. We don't have abundant resources. Much of our planet is, frankly, a hell. Only by ruthlessly concentrating power and materials on an elite can we hope to make progress. While we struggle to catch up with the rest of the galaxy, at which point we will be showered with all the benefits we require now, I admit, a large part of our population suffers, but… the system works. If one views it as a whole, we are making advances. This project with the Federation will accelerate that process. There are many who want more, immediately. There are as many who want nothing to do with you aliens at all, among them some of the most powerful people on this planet. Imagine, if you held a monopoly in power what your reaction would be if the Federation offers unlimited, virtually free power. That is only one example. Many of our commercial interests do not want you here. This middle way is a compromise that can be made to work, to give the privileged and powerful a chance to adapt and protect their positions… Or at least, we hoped it could be made to work. Even within this station, the cracks are beginning to widen. From the point of view of the Federation, it seems we are making too few concessions, but I submit to you, the economic upheaval that would result from enfranchising the lower castes would leave us in too weak a condition to benefit from the additional resources you would then offer us. We must take things slowly."

It was actually a remarkable speech. The meteorologist had never heard a Kibrian speak so directly or frankly about the socio-political turmoil their planet was undergoing. However, political analysis seemed beside the point at that moment.

"Too slowly, sir." Johnson scooped up the medikit in his large, clumsy-looking hands. "For your patient, for whom I find it hard to give a damn, and for mine." Tears that had been damned up behind his anger spilled hot onto his cheeks. "Excuse me."

The Security Officer on duty, no longer worried with the activities of visitors, had retired to the outer office to lounge. "What shall I do with the body?" he asked, rising to his feet as they entered.

Johnson paused until he thought he could answer calmly. "I assume the… the Investigators will require a post mortem."

"Unless Mister Sulu insists, I don't believe they will," the doctor replied. "The fact that he died of poisoning is not in dispute, is it?"

"I'll have Gebain arrange for the disposal, then," the Security Officer offered helpfully. 

Johnson felt physically ill. He turned back to the inner room and looked at 'the body' that was to be turned over to the major domo for 'disposal'.

"I'll take it with me," the meteorologist said, despite the fact that every ounce of his intellect was screaming that he didn't have anywhere suitable to keep a body for four overlong days on an oven-hot planet. His heart seemed to be on override. The roller coaster sensations that went with this belated revolt against a lifetime's rationality were at once intoxicating and terrifying.

The Security Officer shrugged and gave the doctor a significant look that eloquently expressed his opinion of aliens and their eccentricities as he walked to the cell and opened the heavy door. Johnson stepped in and awkwardly hefted the body over his shoulder. Leaving the doctor filling forms, the _Enterprise_ officer took his burden out into the corridor, heading for his quarters. He'd leave Chekov there, then go tell the lieutenant.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"Well, this certainly is a coincidence," Davies said, as the cinnamon-skinned Kibrian walked in.

"Are you Selrideen?" Sulu demanded, although he felt a little foolish doing so. It wasn't every day that mythological characters walked through one's door.

"Some people call me by that name." The newcomer put a benevolent hand on the shoulder of the green-skinned woman. "Although you may know me by another."

"Look," Sulu said, refusing to be unnerved by someone that went by the name of a local deity and was fond of making mystically vague pronouncements like that one. "I'm trying to find a servant named Mras. You might know him."

"He is known to me," the stranger assented.

"Can you take me to him?"

"Mras was brought to me a short time ago in a much depleted condition by an associate of him in hopes that I could be of some assistance to him," the Kibree admitted. "However, he is no longer in the place where the two of us parted."

Sulu frowned at this non-answer to his question. He looked over at Davies who was looking at the newcomer as if she trusted him about as far as she could spit him. The two servant women had gone completely silent and motionless. "I don't have time to play games…"

"There will be an entertainment for the younger children of the lower castes in the water gardens just before moonset," the stranger informed him.

Sulu blinked at this non-sequitur for a moment, then looked at Davies. She, too, seemed to draw the conclusion a second after he did. From what Chekov had told them, Mras would probably wait to commit whatever mayhem he had planned until all the servants were safely away or in one safe place. The stranger's choice to inform them of that particular item on the agenda of the day's festivities made it sound as though he knew exactly what the dwarf had planned, and for when.

"Who are you?" the lieutenant demanded. "And how much do you know?"

The stranger smiled. "I know everything."

Sulu was interrupted by another knock at the door. This time it was Johnson looking drawn and defeated.

"Sir…" he began, then abruptly fell silent. 

Sulu's stomach tightened unbearably. "How's Chekov?"

"I couldn't give him any more stimulants, sir," Johnson explained. "They were building up to the point where they were as much of a danger as the poison. I hoped the poison might have passed through his system — that he might pull through without help — but I was wrong."

"Are you saying Chekov's dead?" Davies, always the practical one, asked bluntly.

'Tell me he isn't,' Sulu pleaded silently as the meteorologist hesitated.

"Yes," Johnson answered, killing hope. "I'm sorry, sir."

The two servant women, who'd been following through the echoes of Davies' translator, put their arms around each other and began to cry with soft, low moans.

"But the Kibrian Medical Officer… Didn't he… Couldn't the two of you… Didn't you try…" Sulu stopped himself in the middle of his inarticulate and misdirected tirade. Davies had sat down heavily on the chair by the workstation. 

"The Medical Officer did offer assistance," Johnson reported, sounding curiously calm and empty. "I think he did his best. However, they don't have a large range of drugs. Relatively few of them are compatible with the human metabolism."

"Except for peeva and kvurr," Sulu said bitterly.

"We tried kvurr. It didn't work."

"Mister Sulu." The tall, red-brown Kibree advanced on them, his face concerned. "Where is your servant?"

"In my quarters," Johnson volunteered. "I wasn't sure what they'd do with him — with his body."

"Take me to him."

"Why?" Davies asked, her voice sounding harsh. "What do you think you can do?"

The Kibree smiled. "Perhaps I think I can perform miracles, Miss Davies."

"I don't need this," Sulu said sharply. "I don't need some two-bit Kibrian hustler trying to make capital out of a situation like this. Get him out of here, Johnson. Davies…"

"He's only sleeping."

Sulu turned on the Kibree. "I told you, I don't have time for riddles and games. Mister Johnson will show you the door."

The man who they claimed was called Selrideen allowed Johnson to hustle him out of the room. "If you change your mind, Lieutenant…" he called over his shoulder, but Sulu had walked over to the computer where he pretended to be in conversation with Davies. "Ask them where Kahsheel would have gone to get poison…"

When the door closed, Sulu dropped his act of indifference and turned to the Kibrian women. "Okay, who is that guy and what did he mean by that?"

"Selrideen," the green-skinned woman answered, raising her homely tear-stained face to him. "For poison you take need of the dream-peddler. All must go to him, kiani to slag."

"And who's the dream-peddler?" Sulu asked, afraid that he already knew the answer.

"He," the woman answered, pointing to the closed door.

"Get him back in here, Johnson."

The ensign was already up and moving, but he returned disappointed. "It's like he vanished into thin air, sir."

Sulu forced himself to stand still and take stock. "Listen, Johnson, are you sure Chekov was dead? Really sure?"

"The portable monitors aren't as good as sick bay diagnostics, but there was no respiration, pulse, cardiac or cerebral activity registering."

"Are there drugs that can cause such a state?"

"Well, yes sir," Johnson answered as if he was unsure why he was being asked this. "Everything from arsenic through to…"

"I mean, without killing the patient?"

Johnson looked pained by his imprecision. "That's what a dead patient is, by all our medical textbooks. You can pull tricks with a combination of those indicators, for a limited amount of time, longer at low temperatures. But…"

"I didn't ask for a damn medical lecture, Johnson," Sulu said, cutting the ensign off more sharply than he'd intended to.

The meteorologist flushed a hot, angry red. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't stop trying… I gave him the stimulants until any more would have killed him. Then I gave him oxygen, assisted respiration and pulmonary massage. I didn't stop until everything I knew told me he was dead… and then some. He died and there was nothing I could do to stop…" Johnson found himself suddenly unable to finish his sentence. He had to turn his back on the rest of the room and study the floor for a few moments.

Sulu looked at his two remaining ensigns, neither of whom seemed able to look at him. 

"Okay," he said to no one in particular as he walked over to the two Kibrian servants. "Ladies," he said, giving them each a hand up, "thank you again for coming, but my subordinates and I need to be alone now, if you don't mind."

"Yes, sir," they replied, obediently stifling their tears and heading for the door.

"Sir…" The green-skinned woman paused timidly on the threshold as he ushered them out. "The Feddie always gave kind speech of you — no matter what sort of speech others gave. You took good service of him."

'And just when I thought nothing could make me feel any worse…' Sulu thought to himself as he closed the door behind them. "All right," he said aloud, turning to his team, fighting the feeling of numb resignation that was quickly setting in. "Here's our plan. The Station Director said she wanted to speak to me when Chekov's condition stabilized. Since it's not going to get any more stable than this, I've got to go talk to her one more time. The two of you have until I come back to come up with some way of getting into contact with Mras. If you can't think of anything I like, we untie Uyal, give him something that will wake him up and proceed to abandon the station."

Johnson cleared his throat and turned back around. "What about the body, Lieutenant?"

"It'll look strange if we leave it and stranger if we take it with us." Davis was making a good effort, but still sounded like only a shadow of her usual, businesslike self.

It hit Sulu with unusual force that 'it' was his friend whom he'd been talking to a remarkably short time ago. "Johnson, make preparations to leave him."

"Lieutenant…"

"I've not decided that's what we'll do," Sulu cut off the ensign's protests as he opened the door. "Trust me, Johnson, this is something I'll be doing a lot of thinking about."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Johnson couldn't help hesitating at the door of his room. The shuttered twilight filled the tall chamber with unexplained shadows. He shook himself and walked over to the small cupboard by his bed where his cache of jewels and one or two personal items were safely stowed. He didn't mean to look at Chekov, but his eyes seemed to have their own will in the matter.

Despite the strange Kibrian's suggestion, the ensign did not look as if he was merely sleeping. He was too pale. There was an unnaturalness in the way Johnson had lain the body down. The meteorologist didn't feel like moving it now. The body would be cool and he didn't want to touch it. Johnson's training also told him that unpleasant things began to happen fairly quickly to bodies left lying around in warm climates. 

Johnson bit his lip. That was it. The thing lying on his bed was a body now. Less than an hour ago it had been Chekov, a living, breathing, arguing person whom he'd tried desperately to save. But now, this was only a body. Johnson couldn't quite believe that he'd stubbornly brought it back here to lie on his bed. It seemed insane. 

The ensign went into the bathroom and ran a basin of cold water. He doused his face with great handfuls of it, trying to wash away the desire to cry. Once he'd finished he stood there, letting cold rivulets soak the front of his uniform. 

A sound from the bedroom set his guts churning. His hands clenched on the front rim of the marble sink, knuckles whiter than the stone itself. The noise he heard was unmistakably the heavy wooden slats of the bed creaking. 

'It's Davies, or Sulu,' he told himself. 'One of them has come by…'

Johnson grabbed a towel and turned around. Through the open door, he could see the Kibree that the others had called the 'dream-peddler' sitting on the side of the bed. The stranger had straightened the corpse so that it now lay like a knight in a medieval brass. 

"Do you trust me, Johnson?" the Kibrian asked calmly.

The ensign clutched the towel in front of him as if it were a shield. "What are you doing here?"

"Locks…" The Kibree raised his hands as if to orchestrate a mass outbreak of exasperation at their inefficacy. "Although, to be honest with you, Ensign, you hadn't locked the door. And this used to be my room. It's a bad habit, but I think an understandable one, to walk in uninvited."

Johnson moved closer to the spot where his phaser and communicator were stashed. "What do you want?"

The stranger looked about the room with a smile. "I'm fond of this old place. Mras is quite determined to destroy it, and I hoped… I had hoped that Chekov would stop him… As I'd hoped that Chekov would solve one or two other festering problems…"

Johnson laughed bitterly. "Is there anyone on the planet who didn't have plans for Chekov?"

"I can't speak for anyone else. They must tell their own stories."

"Funny you should say that." Without turning his back on his visitor, the meteorologist pulled the chair from his computer workstation within easy reach of his weapon and sat down. Despite the fact that Johnson would have been happier to be alone with his grief and that this weirdo was giving him the creeps, the ensign still had a job to do - there was information still to be ferreted out. "Because you could sum up our Prime Directive in almost those same words. Chekov wouldn't let you use him to solve your problems because it's our first rule in dealings with other cultures. We don't interfere. If you want Mras stopped, why don't you tell the Station Director what he's up to?"

The stranger spread his long, bony hands eloquently. "Imagine the consequences, Mister Johnson. Imagine the consequences. I'm entirely too soft-hearted. It was my intention that your friend should simply thwart Mras' immediate plans. The moment would pass and no one would be hurt."

Johnson frowned. "But instead you supplied Kahsheel with the means to murder Chekov."

His visitor shrugged. "Driant told me there were vermin in the tunnels under her apartment."

"Wouldn't the Station Manager be in charge of taking care of things like that?"

Again, the stranger's skeletal shoulders lifted dismissively. "I have heard poorer excuses."

Johnson crossed his arms, beginning to feel he was getting nowhere fast with this guy. "So, what do you want?"

The Kibree smiled. "Why don't you tell me what you want?"

"What I want?"

"Yes, Mister Johnson." The Kibree leaned forward. "There's something that you want very badly right now."

Johnson's eyes fell involuntarily on the still form on his bed. "That's not really any of your business, Mister…"

"On the contrary." The Kibree gently laid his hand on the bed beside Chekov. "Your hopes and fears lie here for the moment, don't they? You fear that you left something out, that you failed to do something that could have prevented this."

"Did I?" Johnson demanded.

"No." The stranger's hand returned to his side. "You tried too hard, if anything. You should have let him come to me sooner. But why ask for my opinion when you don't trust me?"

Johnson put a hand over his eyes. Sulu was right. For some sick reason this guy was just trying to play this situation to his advantage. "I think you should leave now."

"Try to trust me, Johnson," the Kibree said softly as he rose. "There is so little trust between our two cultures, so little faith in the future. Trust me and tell me what you want."

"I want Chekov to be alive again, okay?" Johnson burst out angrily, as he stood also. "I wouldn't think it would take a genius to figure out that one. I wish he wasn't dead. There, I said it. Are you satisfied now? Would you mind getting the hell out of here now?"

The Kibrian caught at his hand as the ensign advanced to forcibly eject him. "Look."

Unable to resist the suggestion, Johnson looked down at the bed. Through some trick of the light, he thought he saw movement. The meteorologist kept a tight grip on the Kibree with one hand while he wiped the salt fog out of his eyes with the other.

Chekov's chest was rising and falling in a steady, even rhythm. Dark eyelashes fluttered momentarily, then stilled.

"Christ Almighty." Johnson pushed the Kibree out of the way and snatched at Chekov's wrist. There was a strong, vibrant pulse. "Mary, Mother of God… Chekov? Can you hear me? What did I do with the damn medikit…"

"You left it here unattended and the Medical Officer borrowed something from it," the stranger informed him, unperturbed. "It's on the table by the door."

"What?" Johnson found his attention momentarily split between Chekov's recovery, his own culpable carelessness and Datvin's monstrous opportunism.

"He'll bring it back as soon as he's finished with it."

"Christ." Johnson would have liked to have throttled the Kibrian, but was afraid that if he took his eyes off Chekov long enough to do so, the ensign would stop breathing again. "Chekov? Pavel? You staged all this just to get hold of a scalpel? I could have killed him with all those stimulants. If he's been hurt, I'll make you wish you'd never been born…"

The Kibree laughed softly. "You should study our mythology, Mister Johnson, then you'd know I never was."

"Chekov?" Johnson said as the ensign's eyelids fluttered again. "Pavel, come on. Speak to me." 

This time Chekov really opened his eyes. Johnson pulled him up into a hug, nearly squeezing the precious breath out of him.

"Mister Johnson…" Chekov tried to free himself. "Please!"

-o- -o-o-o- -o-


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Johnson's help, Chekov disguises himself as a Kibrian.

Sulu kept putting one foot in front of the other. He knew that he had to think, had to plan. The only way to survive these meetings with the Director was to stay two steps ahead of her. She'd certainly already be informed of Chekov's death… Sulu's brain stubbornly refused to get past those last two words.

'C'mon,' he pleaded with himself silently. 'I'm going to have plenty of time to think about that later… I'm going to have the rest of my life to think about that.'

"Profoundest sympathy," an approaching kiani greeted him.

"Thank you," he replied politely without stopping to talk. Apparently the whole station already knew. Sulu was glad there were so few Kibrians out and about then. They were all probably somewhere doing whatever unspeakable things they did to while away this holiday.

The lieutenant suddenly caught a glimpse of robe decorated with a pattern he thought he recognized.

"Hey, excuse me," he called as its wearer rounded the corner ahead of him. "Excuse me, uh… Driant?"

"Yes?" The kiani stopped and turned. This time he was accompanied by a tall, low caste man instead of a slave caste girl, but it was definitely the same Kibree from the marketplace.

"Driant." Sulu smiled. "That is your name, isn't it?"

"I don't think we've been introduced," the Kibrian replied coolly. "You're one of the Federation officers, of course, but…"

"Lieutenant Sulu. The other day in the kideok, I was the one who wasn't for sale."

"Oh, yes." The Kibree didn't seem particularly embarrassed by the remembrance.

"You're an acquaintance of Kahsheel's, aren't you?"

"Yes…" The kiani's eyes slid up and down the corridor probably to see if anyone was present to witness this display of bad manners by one of the alien visitors. "We had mutual friends. I'm devastated by the news of her death. In fact, I'm in this part of the building to inquire what plans are being made for a ceremony for her. Of course, it won't be a traditional service because of the holiday and the circumstances surrounding her death…"

"As I understand it, the two of you were more than friends," Sulu said, deciding to push hard. "It might be more accurate to say you were allies."

"Allies?" The Kibree's small eyes darted up and down the hallway again. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"I'm sure you do." Sulu crossed his arms. "I guess no one's told you that before Mister Chekov died, he got his memory back."

"Chekov?" the Kibrian replied blankly, but the lieutenant caught the look of panic that settled on the kiani's face for a split second. "I don't believe I know anyone by that name."

"You might not have known his name, but he knew…" Without warning, the whole world burst into stars as something very hard made contact with the back of Sulu's head. Everything went black as he slumped into the waiting arms of the kiani. 

"Oh, Miro!" Driant heaved a deep sigh of relief as his minion quickly helped him to drag the lieutenant into a nearby darkened alcove. "What would I ever do without you?"

The low caste pocketed his blackjack, wrapped Sulu's unconscious form in his own voluminous robe and hefted him over his shoulder. "How do you wish me to dispose of him, sir?"

"Dispose? No, no, no," Driant replied, checking both ways to see if they'd attracted any unwanted onlookers. "He, like all our gifts from the Federation, must be most carefully utilized."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Johnson tried to regain his footing in reality, but the ground was still too slippery. He had to retain a grip on Chekov's shoulders as he exclaimed, "But you were dead!"

"No, I was just sleeping," Chekov said, shaking him off irritably. A frown crossed his face as he looked around. "I'm not in the Security cell. How did you get me out?"

"I was able to get you out because you were dead," Johnson said, stating the now unbelievable truth. 

Chekov gave him a patronizing smile. "Luckily, like Mister Gebain, I wasn't very dead."

"No, no… This guy did something…"

"What guy?"

When Johnson turned, they were alone in the room. No trace of the Kibrian remained in the open doorway. "That Kibree…"

"Perhaps you should lie down for a moment, Mister Johnson," Chekov suggested.

"I can't believe this," Johnson ran the medical scanner over him. "Still traces of the stimulants… Some strain to vital organs, but no permanent damage… No trace of the toxin… No trace of peeva."

Chekov shrugged, still not buying it. "Apparently, death agreed with me."

"I don't understand it." Johnson looked from the ensign sitting up on the bed to the empty doorway and back again. "You were dead."

"Obviously not, Mister Johnson. The Kibrians simply allowed you to believe I was."

"But they believed you were too. How do you feel?"

Chekov massaged the back of his neck with one hand. "Like I've drunk three gallons of black coffee."

"It's the stimulants."

Chekov's eyes suddenly lit up. "If I'm alive, then Kahsheel…"

"Kahsheel is dead. They did an autopsy on her and have sent her body off to do whatever they do to dead Kibrians…"

Johnson stopped when he finally registered the effect this was having on Chekov. "Sorry, I didn't mean to be so blunt…"

"Do you have anything to drink?" the ensign asked, partly because he felt dehydrated and partly on the hopes of getting the meteorologist out of his lap.

"Water."

"Water would be fine." While the other ensign hurried to the basin in the other room, Chekov winced as he stretched and swung his legs down onto the floor. He might not have been dead, but he certainly did feel very stiff in the joints. "What is the situation, Mister Johnson?"

"We're on the verge of abandoning the station — without informing the Kibrians," Johnson answered from the other room, running water into a cup. "Lieutenant Sulu is in a meeting with the Station Director. Davies and I are under orders to think of some way to contact Mras who is hiding in what the servants we spoke to called the catacombs…"

"A difficult assignment." Chekov nodded as he accepted the cup. The meteorologist hovered over him until Chekov motioned for him to sit down in the chair near the bed. "Johnson, if the Kibrians believe that I am dead, I think it would be to our advantage if we continued to allow them to do so."

Johnson reluctantly took a position several feet away from his patient. "It's going to be hard to get you out of the station…"

"I don't intend to leave the station yet," Chekov informed him. "I think I know where I could get a change of clothing. I could disguise myself as a servant…"

Johnson shook his head. "You don't look Kibrian. You're not tall enough and even if you were, I'm pretty short of theatrical makeup."

"Yes, but you do have that." Chekov pointed at the medikit, still lying open on the table by the door.

"I can't make you taller."

"Then that can't be helped. I will be a small Kibrian. You can change my appearance, though. Use your imagination, Mister Johnson."

Johnson bit his lip. Chekov did have a point. As himself, the Russian would only end up back in the holding cell. As a Kibrian low caste, he would be free to move about the station in areas that were inaccessible to the rest of the _Enterprise_ party — areas where Mras was probably hiding and making plans for destruction.

"Okay…" Johnson dumped the depleted contents of the medikit out onto the low table beside him and began to rummage through them. "I could change the color of your skin with this. That would take about half an hour… This would give you a short beard in around the same amount of time - that would tend to hide the shape of your face. I can't do anything to give you Kibrian eyes, but this would cause temporary epidermal swelling that would distort your features…"

"Yes, you can. You can use synthetic skin to put folds into the skin round my eyes. And you can cover up this at the same time…" Chekov held out his right hand and grinned. "You're left handed too, aren't you?" 

Johnson watched him take off his tunic and turn it inside out to hide Sulu's insignia. "Yes, why?"

"There's a little Kibrian folklore I intend to spread back on the _Enterprise_. Apparently, left handed men are better lovers. But you and I knew that anyway." The navigator disappeared inside the reversed tunic, sparing Johnson the necessity of reacting to this bit of locker room banter.

"Chekov, with as many chemicals as your body has been exposed to…"

"A few more won't hurt." The ensign smiled cheerfully as he offered the meteorologist his arm. "Don't worry, Johnson. I have already survived death once today."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Davies was surprised when she answered a knock at the door to be met by Station Manager Datvin instead of Sulu or Johnson.

"May I speak with the lieutenant, please?" the Kibree asked with the sort of politeness that made Davies feel as though she'd been caught in the midst of doing something wrong.

"He's in conference with the Station Director." Davies was beginning to feel like the team's secretary, stuck guarding Sulu's room and answering his door. She and Johnson had agreed that one of them should remain in the lieutenant's apartment in case their servant contacts or the mysterious stranger decided to return. The meteorologist was long overdue on his promise to return and help make plans after retrieving a few items from his quarters, but Datvin's air of nervous impatience decided her against going to find him before setting off.

"I can assure you that he is not." Datvin's sharp eyes traveled the room, catching each piece of scattered or half-packed equipment. "I have come about the matter of the corpse that I understand is being stored in one of the chambers assigned to your party. Doing so is strictly against station policy. The Director asked me to convey her deepest sympathies and her strong desire to speak to the lieutenant at his earliest convenience."

Davies crossed her arms and sniffed contemptuously at the thought of the Director's deepest sympathies. "Lieutenant Sulu's with her now. He's been gone nearly twenty minutes."

"No, he isn't. I have come directly from her office." The Kibrian's gaze settled suspiciously over the ensign's shoulder on the open equipment case laid out on Sulu's bed. "Perhaps it would be best if you were to come speak with the Director yourself, Ensign Davies… That is, unless you were planning to go elsewhere?"

"No, of course not." Davies forced herself to smile as she gestured for Datvin to precede her out then closed the door securely behind them both. "I'd be more than happy to come."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Sulu raised his head groggily and then — like anyone else who has been slugged with a cosh — wished he hadn't. The place where he was — wherever he was — was dark and damp. He groaned before he could stop himself. However if there was anyone with him in the blackness, they didn't react to this sign of regained consciousness.

He rolled over onto his back, then pulled himself slowly into a sitting position. His eyes slowly began to pick up the very faint outline of an ill-fitting door and the equally dim shape of a ventilation grille in the ceiling above him.

He wondered how long he'd been out. If he was still inside the station, he hoped he'd been unconscious considerably less than five hours. Wherever he was, Sulu knew he had to get out of here fast. He had to talk to the Director. 

The more the lieutenant thought about it, the less wrong Chekov seemed in his assertion that the principle of non-interference was inherently compromised by their simple presence on Kibria. "Even if we rescue ourselves, we're interfering," the ensign had said. Sulu reflected that if he'd put his foot down at the start over Chekov, he wouldn't have been interfering any more than he was going to be anyway. All Chekov's suffering, all that humiliation… The last three days seemed even more bitter in retrospect than they had at the time. 

'So,' Sulu summarized to himself briskly, refusing to give in to despair and recriminations, 'if someone actually is planning to use the team's presence in the station when it was destroyed either to blame it on us or simply to up the political stakes by involving the Federation… then we're freed to act in our own defense. The only probable exception is if Mras is planning to wreck the station whether we're in it or not. He could be completely oblivious to the wider implications of his plan.' 

Sulu shook his head at the closed door in front of him. He had to get out of here and do something that would keep the Director from trying to put the screws on in some other way… at least until the immediate danger was over. He had to get to Mras… 

"Damn," he cursed softly as he found himself automatically making plans for contacting the dwarf that involved Chekov. Neither Johnson nor Davies had the navigator's knowledge of servant culture. Neither of them even spoke Kibrian. Despite the fact that both of them were capable officers, they could probably do little more than sit and wait for him to show up. Being good officers, Sulu reflected sourly, it wasn't likely that they were doing more than that.

'I'll never tell Chekov that he's too impulsive again,' Sulu thought before remembering that he'd never tell Chekov anything again. 'Damn.'

It was getting harder each time to pull himself back from that yawning chasm of grief. Not knowing how much longer he could continue to do so, Sulu swiped at his eyes and checked for his communicator. Whoever had put him there — presumably Driant — had taken the device.

He stood up and walked to the door. There was no handle on his side of it. It didn't yield to steady pressure. The lieutenant resisted the urge to see what its reaction would be to a savage kick. He didn't want anyone to come in until he'd tried all the other possible ways out.

The grille wasn't in the ceiling, but it was still out of his reach at the top of the wall. His investigation failed to turn up anything that would provide the extra height he needed. Squaring his shoulders, Sulu went back to the door and did his best to put his boot through it. 

"Stand back," someone on the other side ordered.

The lieutenant took a small step away from the door as he heard the lock click. As the door opened and his eyes adjusted to the light, Sulu realized his captors were taking no chances. Driant's low caste companion was covering him with a gun very like the one Uyal had been using earlier. The kiani was standing at a safe distance.

"Lieutenant Sulu, I'm glad to see you're with us again." Driant smiled as he snapped his fingers. Two additional servants entered at his summons. One activated the lighting panels as the other dragged in a chair.

Sulu could now see that his prison was a small, unornamented room — perhaps a storage room or a very large closet.

The kiani gestured for him to be seated. Calculating that he had no chance of getting through the room's single exit before he was shot for his pains, Sulu obeyed. Immediately, the two servants began to secure his wrists to the arms of the chair with leather straps.

"I hope that's not too uncomfortable, Lieutenant," Driant apologized as they worked. "I really don't want us to regard each other as enemies."

"It's a little too late to worry about that," Sulu replied, as the servants tied his ankles to the chair's legs.

Driant regarded him thoughtfully. "I regret what happened to your servant. Kahsheel always was… given to melodrama."

Sulu's eyes narrowed. "I don't believe you gave Chekov's safety any consideration at any time."

"No," the kiani admitted, dismissing his servants with a careless gesture. "It wasn't a very high priority. After all, he was only a…"

"You were the one who set it up so he'd become a slave in the first place," Sulu interrupted harshly. "Why?"

"Mister Sulu," Driant protested. "Nature ordained that role for him, not me. I could argue that by giving him responsibilities he was ill-equipped to sustain, you were exploiting him. However, I know enough about you to realize this argument is not going to persuade either one of us to change our minds. I would prefer to use this necessarily brief interview more productively."

Sulu opened his bound hands eloquently. "I don't seem to be in a position to dictate terms."

"I'm glad you see that," the kiani replied civilly. "You know what we want. You also have some idea of the lengths we are prepared to go to to get it. You can give me the information I want, or I can kill you, making it look as if the reactionary faction who favor isolation are responsible. Your death, under those circumstances, will strengthen the hand of the radical party in the government, giving them an excuse to crack down on our enemies. In addition, such an incident may encourage the Federation to relax its restrictions on the release of technology to Kibria, since we will argue that greater stability will be helped by modernizing our society and improving overall living conditions. Such stability is important to the Federation if they are to develop the transit facilities on Eenos. So, which is it to be?"

Sulu took a very deep breath. "What information do you want?"

The kiani smiled. "Funny, I can't help but be disappointed in you, Lieutenant. After all the trouble your Chekov gave us, I thought you'd try a little harder to stick to your principles. Obviously we chose the wrong man right from the beginning. Well, now, since the computers are still down for another four hours or so…" 

Sulu fought not to react to the welcome news that he was still in the station with a good margin until Mras' deadline. 

"…I'll have to ask you to do this the old-fashioned way. I could wait, but I really want to be able to release you before your absence raises too many questions." Driant produced pen and paper from under his robe. "And Lieutenant, I am a scientist. Don't think you can fool me."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"Hmm." Chekov turned his face slowly from side to side as he sat on the bed examining his reflection in a small hand mirror. "I'm beginning to look like Fyodor Petrovich Suvorov."

"Who's that?" Johnson asked.

"The ugliest man in Moscow." Chekov put down the mirror. "My hair is still recognizable though. Could we change the color?"

"I'm not a hairdresser," Johnson complained. "And if I'd wanted to do this sort of thing, I wouldn't have spent the last four years studying weather systems."

Making a dissatisfied noise through his nose, Chekov picked the mirror back up and began to chew contemplatively on the end of his thumb as he studied his reflection. Johnson looked at the swarthy, stubbled, puffy-eyed man in front of him and pondered philosophically whether reacting so much to someone's appearance rather than their inner being wasn't a sign of an essential shallowness.

"We can cut it," Chekov decided. "Most servants have shorter hair. It usually isn't very well cut either. Do you have scissors?"

Johnson extracted a pair from his medikit and handed them to Chekov.

The Russian looked at them and offered them back. "It is quicker for you to do it."

"No, I'd…" The meteorologist pulled away, seeming unaccountably flustered. "I'd rather not."

Chekov's face tried to contract in to a puzzled scowl, but it was no longer capable of its normal flexibility. "Mister Johnson, you have been acting as my personal physician. You have pumped me full of drugs, taken my pulse every few seconds, resuscitated me, even carried around what you thought was my corpse… and now you don't think you can bring yourself to cut my hair?"

"Well… well…" Johnson stammered for a moment then, blushing, snatched the scissors out of Chekov's hand and began hacking with the all the clumsiness of a novice barber.

"Chekov…" he began, after working in silence for a couple of minutes, "…there's something I should tell…"

"Shouldn't Mister Sulu be back by now?" Chekov interrupted.

"Ah, well… I suppose that depends on what he manages to negotiate with the Director," Johnson replied, falling back into his usual character. "It might be best if you wait here until he comes back. After all, he thinks you're dead. He'll want to know that you aren't…"

"You can tell him that," Chekov said, eyeing his new hairstyle in the small mirror. "Although I'm not sure he will have much confidence in your medical judgement. Presumably he knows that Gebain is still alive?"

"You told him yourself."

"Did I? Then my recovery shouldn't come as too much of a surprise." Chekov smiled crookedly at his reflection. "Well, Mister Johnson, I hope you're not expecting a gratuity. This is certainly the worst haircut I've ever had in my life."

"I guess I'll stay with meteorology," Johnson agreed as he stood, being careful to shake the hair that had fallen onto him as he worked onto the bed. He stepped back and examined his handiwork. "You really don't look like yourself any more. This might not work if anyone was looking for you, but I think you'll get away with it since everyone thinks you're dead."

"Good." Chekov stood up and placed the mirror on top of a nearby cabinet. "Then I shall go look for Mras. Alone, necessarily." 

Chekov turned suddenly and bumped into Johnson. To his surprise the man didn't apologize, or move out of his way. Instead, the meteorologist brushed a few stray hairs off Chekov's neck and took a deep breath. "You will be careful, won't you?"

"Of course." Chekov edged past him, shaking loose hair out of his clothing. "I am always very careful."

"You've already been dead once today," Johnson reminded him. "I don't think Lieutenant Sulu will be very pleased if anything else happens to you."

"Johnson…" Chekov paused in the midst of running his hand through what was left of his hair as a thought hit him. "What did Ensign Davies say when you told her I was dead?"

The meteorologist shook his head. "I don't remember."

"I hope she was moved to retract a few libelous statements she made about me earlier?"

"No. Not that I recall."

"Oh, really?" A devilish smile overcame the stiffness around Chekov's mouth. "In that case, it might be amusing to haunt her a little…" 

Johnson suddenly started blinking back tears.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…" Chekov stuttered to a halt. After all, Johnson had obviously worked pretty hard to keep him alive. It wasn't polite to respond by insulting the woman his savior plainly had feelings of some sort for. "Of course, I wouldn't actually do anything to upset Ensign Davies…"

"Oh, to hell with Davies," Johnson said, his tears breaking into laughter. "It's just that I… I… I'm just glad you're alive, Chekov."

"I'm very pleased about it myself," Chekov replied, puzzled by the vehemence of Johnson's reactions. Chalking the meteorologist's emotionalism up to fatigue, he continued after a moment, "I should be going. We could stop to inform Ensign Davies that I'm feeling much better, if you think I should."

"Sure." Still smiling, Johnson went to the door. "The corridor's clear, but I'd better go in to be certain that there's no one in there with her."

As the meteorologist closed the door behind him, butterflies suddenly began to stir around inside Chekov's stomach. With the uncertain hour for Mras' revenge drawing near, the station seemed a dangerous place in which to simply wait around. The ensign paced off the minutes restlessly. He started violently when Johnson finally reopened the door.

"Davies isn't in Sulu's room or her own," Johnson announced unhappily. "She didn't leave a note or anything." The air of mounting panic was obviously catching. "There's no sign that Sulu's been back either. I couldn't even find those blue pills he was giving you."

Chekov frowned. He forgotten all about his problems with the peeva. He felt fine now, but… "If the pills are with him, wherever he is, I can't go look for him. I do not have time to wait either. I will simply have to manage without."

"You haven't managed to do without very well up until now," Johnson pointed out.

Chekov sighed impatiently. "What do you suggest I do?"

The meteorologist glanced at the jumble of drugs littered over the bed. "You've had so much already… I'm out of my depth, Chekov. I wish you'd just wait until the lieutenant gets back." 

"Tell Sulu where I am and what I am attempting to do," Chekov instructed, moving towards the door.

Johnson beat him to it in one long stride, standing as if he were going to open it for him, but actually holding it shut. "You will be in the tunnels under the station looking for Mras in order to find out what he's up to and who he's working for," Johnson recited. "You'll make sure you get back here by an hour before moonset at the very latest, since that's when Selrideen implied that Mras would do… whatever he's going to do." 

Chekov nodded. 

Johnson cast about for a reason to detain him just a moment longer. "Are you sure you won't take my phaser? Or at least a communicator?"

"No. It is more dangerous for me to have anything in my possession that might fall into Kibrian hands or identify me as a Federation officer." Chekov tapped a lump on his right forearm. "You'll be able to find me easily enough with this."

Not having a proper subcutaneous device, the two of them had improvised one by planting a small capsule of derinium under his skin. The unique presence of this non-native substance would make him easily traceable with a tricorder from a wide range.

"What will you say if anyone asks where my body is?" Chekov asked.

"I'll say that someone from the Station Manager's office took it away."

The navigator nodded approvingly as he absent-mindedly rubbed at the synthetic skin covering his branded hand. "Is there anything else we need to discuss?" 

"I don't think so."

"Then…" Chekov nodded to the door which Johnson was still holding shut. "…if you don't mind, Mister Johnson."

"What? Oh…" Johnson reluctantly moved aside to let Chekov past to the door. "Remember not to talk too much."

"Do I ever?" Chekov asked before disappearing quietly down the corridor.

The door shut with a neat click. Johnson forced himself not to go and open it again in order to check that he hadn't imagined the events of the last forty minutes. But no, the dark chestnut-colored hair littering the white bed cover and the blue and white floor tiles was evidence enough of that. 

In fact, Johnson realized, it was the sort of clue that the most short-sighted investigator could hardly fail to notice. The meteorologist brushed himself down, shook the cover thoroughly and then meticulously gathered the trimmings on the floor into a tidy pile. It was possible that they would have to keep Chekov's recovery a secret for several days yet. If questions were asked about the whereabouts of the corpse, they didn't want the Kibree to find anything hinting at a resurrection. Since Johnson didn't know what happened at the far end of the disposal chutes, he folded a sheet of printout into an improvised envelope. He carefully swept the hair into it, then tucked it inside his shirt. "And if I get shot, or knifed or something," he told himself, "and they find it next to my heart, Chekov can make what he likes of it."

He glanced at the timepiece on his workstation. Apart from digital readouts, no two clocks on the station appeared to be alike. This one worked by rotating interlinked cogs which, when they turned to significant positions, allowed markers to slide down the outside of the entire complicated arrangement. The whole thing was powered by gravity and relied on someone resetting the device once every three days. It also chinked periodically like gravel being thrown at a window, but fortunately Johnson was a sound sleeper. It took a good deal to perturb his emotional equilibrium in other respects also. He found the fact that he now couldn't make up his mind as to what to do next deeply worrying.

Sulu should have been back long since, but he could hardly go chasing after the lieutenant. No, all he could do was make sure he was ready to leave at a moment's notice. He turned to review the state of his packing. His eye fell on the medikit. It looked like a kindergarten class had been playing doctor with it. 

Johnson stared at the evidence of his disturbed state of mind and, as if physically ordering the equipment would somehow put his thoughts into the same state, sat down to put everything away in its proper place. When he'd finished, the slot where the Hamilton scalpel normally sat was all the more conspicuous.

Johnson replayed the relevant conversations: 'The Station Manager and the Medical Officer are anxious to obtain certain medical technology','I do know that his particular need is a personal matter involving his son', 'The Medical Officer borrowed it…','…for one of my patients…' Well, he'd just have to go and get it back. Johnson packed everything, clipped the medical kit and his phaser onto his belt, put the rest of his belongings by the door where they could be grabbed in a hurry and went the few yards down the corridor to the lieutenant's quarters. He let himself in. 

He checked the obvious places again for a note of any sort. This seemed to be another symptom of the stress he was under. He never usually felt any need to repeat something he'd already done with perfect thoroughness. Eventually he gave up and decided instead to leave a note himself. 

Johnson paused with the nib of the writing utensil he found laying on Sulu's desk hovering over a blank sheet. "Chekov alive" seemed a little blunt. Such an unambiguous announcement might also give the game away to the wrong person. It was difficult to come up with a way to convey this vital information clearly and yet discretely. "Navigation no longer a problem…" he considered. "Reports of Pavel's death in tradition of Twain obituary…" 

After a moment, Johnson discarded the idea of communicating in twentieth century telegraphese and decided he'd prefer to break the good news in person… or, better yet, watch Chekov tell Sulu himself. 

"I have good news," he wrote tamely in the end, "but the Medical Officer has borrowed the Hamilton Scalpel. I am about to attempt to recover it. I should return shortly." 

Johnson finished the note with his signature and a notation of the time, now four and a half hours before moonset. 

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

'I'm not going to volunteer anything,' Davies coached herself silently as she followed the Station Manager down the corridor to the Director's office. 'I'm not going to agree to anything… Where the hell is Sulu?'

The distance between the ensign and the Kibree lengthened as Datvin forgot to allow for her shorter stride. Davies purposefully did not hurry to catch up. 'He can wait for me,' she told herself. 'I can't afford to give way in anything right now.'

Datvin got to the end of the corridor and realized he was alone. "This way, Miss Davies," he urged her politely.

"You seem to be in a hurry," Davies observed in a tone she hoped was equally cool, as she deliberately slowed her pace.

A flicker of something that might have been concern crossed the Kibree's face.

"I do have other duties to attend to," he replied, quickly recovering his characteristic air of superiority.

Davies stopped dead several paces short of the junction. "Pressing ones, it would seem."

The Kibrian was beginning to look distinctly uncomfortable. "A personal matter," he answered shortly. "Of no concern to you. Now if you would…"

Davies adopted a stance, arms folded, that strongly projected no intention whatsoever of moving any time soon. "Do you really have no idea where Lieutenant Sulu is?"

Datvin looked disapprovingly down his nose at this tactic. "Young woman, the lieutenant has never shown any inclination to keep me appraised of his whereabouts in the past. Why should you assume that he has begun to do so now?"

"Hmm." Davies had to admit he had a point. She didn't think Datvin was hiding any information, but she was reluctant to give up what felt like the first bit of leverage she'd ever had over the Kibrian by moving. "Datvin, about the… About Mister Chekov… About the body… I don't know what the normal arrangements are on Kibria…"

"Prompt cremation," the Station Manager informed her briskly and as impersonally as if they were discussing the weather. "Usually on the same day. For reasons of sanitation and public health. We do not have facilities for storage. As today is a holiday, Engineer Kahsheel will be cremated this evening, after sundown. Her remains are lying in the memorial hall, for the convenience of visitors, until then."

Davies hoped the kiani's cremation wouldn't be occurring sooner and more spectacularly than the Manager expected. "Then why can't Chekov's remains stay where they are?"

The Kibrian tilted his head suspiciously. "What exactly do you intend to do with them?"

"His…" Davies stopped. Presumably since Chekov belonged to Sulu, it was the lieutenant's wishes rather than those of the ensign's family which Kibrian custom would respect. "Mister Sulu will want the body returned to Earth. That means we're only talking about keeping it somewhere until our ship returns. Between three and six days, if nothing unexpected happens."

Datvin made no reply other than a small fluttering of his fingers that clearly read as a gesture of impatience.

Davies felt strange, bartering for poor Chekov's body in this way. It was rather ghoulish, when one paused to think about it. Davies squared her shoulders and decided not to pause and think about it. After all, it had to be done… and it was the least she could do. "Surely you could arrange something for that long. If nothing else, you could pack it in ice where it is."

The Kibree sighed impatiently. "I will do what I can. Arranging this sort of thing is actually Gebain's province. While he's recovering…"

"How is Mister Gebain?" Davies interrupted figuring it wouldn't hurt to have information that might affect Mras' plans for the station.

"He was attacked by one of the servants, an unbalanced individual. He underestimated the seriousness of his injuries and later required surgery for internal bleeding. A most distressing incident. Quite out of the ordinary. We give the lower castes a holiday and this is what comes of it. They take advantage of the relaxation of discipline to display their depraved and violent nature. And I…" Datvin abruptly clamped his lips closed on his own tirade. After pausing for a moment to recompose himself by giving her a particularly cold stare, he finished, "And the Federation preaches emancipation. Truly, you do not appreciate the position here. Now, Miss Davies, if you would please…"

"I'm not in a hurry," she informed him. "Are you in a hurry?"

"Yes, Miss Davies," Datvin replied, exasperated. "I allowed ample time to accomplish this errand for the Director, but thanks to your dawdling I am now going to be late for my son's…" Again the Kibrian bit off his words mid-sentence. "If you would come this way."

"You'll arrange for Chekov to stay where he is?" Davies persisted.

Datvin sighed. "If you insist. Now, could we please…?"

"Of course." She smiled as she set off briskly in the direction of the Director's office. "I hate to keep someone waiting."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Johnson paused at the door to the Medical Office and mentally checked over his facts. Inside, a low caste medical auxiliary was watering a potted plant. "Excuse me, I need to see the Medical Officer."

She automatically looked at a door to her right. "No, I'm afraid he's with a patient now. If it's something that just requires a dressing, I can… Oh, you can't go in…" The low caste stared after him. "…there. Oh."

Although Johnson had been in the Medical Officer's examining room several times, he was still struck by the frivolity of its design. Rather than the stark utilitarian lines one would expect to find in such a place, at every opportunity decorative details were added, giving the place a vaguely unsanitary look to the meteorologist's critical eye. The doctor was standing with his back to Johnson, tending to a small patient almost completely covered with a white sheet.

The doctor turned. "What are you doing here? I'm operating. Don't you have any notion of the risk to my patient your being here represents?"

"Nothing like the risk my reclaiming my property would represent," Johnson replied coldly.

The doctor put his hand over something on the table beside him. "Are you mad? I'm performing brain surgery on a child, a mere infant. Are you going to impose your arrogant prejudices at the cost of this child's life?"

"No. I'm going to let you finish what you're doing." Johnson paused significantly. "After you've written out a full statement of what you've done and the exact steps that you and the Station Manager took to get hold of this equipment."

The doctor blinked at him in disbelief. "Mister Johnson, I know that your party has been very badly treated and I know you are upset about the death of your friend…"

"…And if you don't hurry, we both might have another death to be upset about," Johnson finished for him.

"You're going to have to wait, Mister Johnson," the Kibree said, turning resolutely back to his patient. "I've completed the excision, but I have to monitor the internal bleeding."

"This won't take you a moment. I'll keep an eye on the patient while you do it." Johnson moved closer to the table and made a show of looking interested in the lavishly illustrated instruction booklet which accompanied the stolen scalpel.

Knowing himself to be caught, the doctor released a long breath.

"That won't be necessary," he said, making a quick review of his patient's vital signs. He then picked up a nearby pad and began to scribble out a few lines. "I would have returned it, you know. As tempting as it was to keep such a device, I would have returned it."

Johnson folded his arms. "I wish I knew that was true."

The Kibrian had no reply for this other than to continue work on his confession. Out of force of habit, the meteorologist checked the primitive array of devices that continued to report the tiny patient's vital signs. "What's the matter with him?"

"A tumor," the doctor replied, handing him the pad. "A benign tumor. It would have been absorbed in time, but it would have delayed his intellectual development… and caused behavioral problems…"

"Problems that might have put him in one of the lower castes?" Johnson guessed as he scanned the hand written document into his translator.

"Yes." The doctor reached past him and turned the page in the scalpel's instruction booklet as if double checking something.

"And what's the problem with that?" Johnson demanded icily.

The Kibrian frowned as he handed over the stolen instrument. "Your scalpel, Mister Johnson. Thank you for letting me use it. And I think you and I both know what the problem with that is. I believe I have also explained how little I can do about it. Now, if you'll excuse me…"

Johnson tucked the device and its instructions back into its white case. As the Medical Officer cleared away his equipment, the little boy's face became visible for the first time, peacefully sleeping.

The meteorologist's uncaring facade cracked at the sight. "I hope he'll be okay…" he said, feeling queasily guilty that within a few hours this operation might have been rendered worthless.

"I'm sure he will." The Kibrian smiled at his small patient. "And I am grateful. I know you've stretched the rules for me… for him. And I… well, I did what I could for your friend. I'm sure you'll come to appreciate that later."

Johnson stared at the doctor for a moment, then, knowing that if he prolonged this conversation much further he was going to say something he shouldn't, he turned to go. As he did, his eyes fell on an open pharmacy cabinet. "You gave Lieutenant Sulu something… some tablets, I think… to help Chekov with his addiction to peeva?"

"Yes. I did."

"I'm worried…" Johnson paused and carefully regrouped his thoughts. "We're almost certain someone gave Chekov the peeva deliberately. There's a chance those same people will try the same thing again on another one of us. So could I have a few more of those pills?"

"I gave Mister Sulu more than enough…"

"Unfortunately, I've lost track of the lieutenant," Johnson admitted, trying not to make it sound as if this was a major problem.

The blue pills rattled noisily into the little round tin. Pushing the top firmly back onto the jar, the doctor looked warily at Johnson. 

"Thanks." Johnson turned to go, but found he couldn't leave the room without turning and saying, "You're not helpless, you know. Under a strict interpretation, it might be breaking the Non Interference Directive for me to even say this, but you're not helpless. You're a powerful man. You can get things done if you want to. Just look what you've managed for this little boy today. If you really want change for your planet, you can be a driving force for that change. You are not helpless."

The Kibrian was silent for long enough to make Johnson begin to feel like an absolute fool for having spoken. A week ago, it would never have occurred to him to have said such a thing. He decided Mister Chekov's impulsiveness must be of the contagious variety.

"I have things to finish up here," the Medical Officer said, stepping back to his patient.

Feeling defeated, Johnson turned again to go.

"Afterwards…" The sound of the doctor's voice stopped him. "…I think I may make a few inquiries about your Lieutenant Sulu." The Kibrian met the Federation officer's eyes steadily. "Perhaps, Mister Johnson, we agree rather more than you realize."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

The Director made a poor show of being otherwise occupied when Datvin ushered Ensign Davies into her office. She laid down her pen and turned over the sheet of elaborately embellished doodles. "Miss Davies."

'I will not apologize, I will not volunteer anything, I will not agree to anything,' Davies ordered herself silently before calmly responding, "Madame Director." 

"Let's not waste time, Ensign." The Director folded her arms sternly. "Where is Lieutenant Sulu?"

Davies noted she had not been invited to sit down. She took a moment to choose a chair, pull it into place opposite the Director and seat herself comfortably in it. "As far as I know, he should be in this room."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I last saw him just three quarters of an hour ago. He said he was going to see you. Either he did so, in which case you probably have more idea than I where he intended to go next, or he was detained on the way here. If that is so, I would appreciate your taking steps to locate him."

The Director blinked at Davies for a moment, seemingly surprised both by the ensign's announcement and unexpected aggression. She then rested her forehead against her fist. It looked as though this news was the straw that threatened to break the Kibrian equivalent of a dromedary's back.

"Director," Datvin broke into the silence, "if you have no further need of me…"

"I may need you, Datvin," the Director said, recovering. "If the lieutenant is truly missing, the Security Office will have the responsibility of locating him. The matter will fall under your jurisdiction."

"Of course," the Station Manager acknowledged. "If you determine that is the case, I will initiate the proper steps. However, at the moment, I have a pressing personal matter than requires my attention."

"A personal matter?" the Director repeated, in a this-had-better-be-a-good-one tone of voice.

"My son is scheduled to undergo surgery at this time. I am quite anxious about the result."

Two and two suddenly collided in Davies' head and made four. "Brain surgery?" she speculated.

The Station Manager seemed to pale a little but made no reply.

The Director glanced quickly between him and Davies. "You unnecessarily and perhaps unknowingly wound our Station Manager's feelings as a parent, Ensign. The procedure you seem to be suggesting isn't possible."

"Using stolen Federation technology, it would be," Davies asserted, keeping her fingers tightly crossed. She wasn't sure what she hoped to achieve here, but putting the Director on the defensive seemed like a good start.

"Datvin?" the Kibrian asked, generously sharing her place on the hot seat.

"I don't know what she's talking about, Director. The Medical Officer informed me yesterday that he had become aware of a new technique. I don't know the details…"

"But you threatened Chekov in order to get hold of some advanced medical technology," Davies broke in accusingly, "just in case it would come in useful?" 

"The Lieutenant's servant was aggrieved because I discovered he was breaking station rules and saw to it that he was disciplined for having done so," Datvin bluffed with accomplished aplomb. "If he made up these spiteful accusations it is only what one expects of someone of his obviously base nature who was quite rightly consigned to the lowest caste."

"Well, this is easily settled, isn't it?" Davies said, a tight smile covering her rising ire. "Let's just go along to wherever this surgery is taking place and see what your Medical Officer is using… although it will be rather awkward and unfortunate for all concerned if I have to reclaim one of his instruments before he's finished."

The Director was beginning to look ill. "Your advanced technology is a powerful temptation to my people," she said in a tone whose evenness was forced. "You have been cautioned to take care…"

"But the Kibree are such law-abiding, disciplined people," Davies replied ironically, the heat of her anger warming her face. "We were led to believe that our property would be quite safe. Instead, it has been stolen. And in Chekov's case, murdered. When it's established that Kahsheel killed him rather than the other way around — by the advanced forensic facilities we will have access to when the _Enterprise_ arrives — I've no doubt that Mister Sulu will be taking the strongest possible legal action against all those who can be held accountable."

A deathly silence descended on the room.

"Please, calm yourself, Miss Davies," the Director said quietly. "I am willing to discuss this matter, but rationally and without undue emotion."

"Undue..?"

"Madame Director," Datvin broke in unexpectedly. "In view of the discussion we were having earlier, I think you should know that from the state of Lieutenant Sulu's quarters, it looks as if our guests from the Federation are intending to leave the station."

Davies turned in the direction of this new attack, feeling the initiative slip suddenly from her grasp.

"Perhaps," the Station Manager suggested coolly, "under the circumstances, it would be wise to detain Ensign Davies until you can check on the lieutenant's whereabouts and intentions."

"Now, wait just a…" Davies protested.

"Yes, of course." The color returned comfortably to the Director's face. "Purely as a precaution. We're not putting you under arrest, of course, Miss Davies, but I feel it wise to keep you under observation. And Ensign Johnson as well, especially in view of the threats he made earlier… in front of several witnesses." The Kibree smiled a grim, uncompromising smile. "I will look into your allegations that Federation equipment has been stolen as soon as possible, Ensign. Certainly as soon as possible. But my first responsibility is to the security of this Station. I regret to have to inform you that rumors have been reported to me. Rumors that the Federation may not be as well-disposed towards the success of this project as we had understood."

"That's ridiculous," Davies objected, knowing exactly who had started those rumors and wishing she'd killed Uyal while she had the chance.

"Datvin, perhaps you could find someone to supervise Miss Davies," the Director ordered with infuriating Kibrian civility. "Arrange for your Security staff to find Mister Johnson and bring him to join her. In the office across the corridor, perhaps. I believe no one is using it at present."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"Oh, God!" Chekov groaned, pulling the itchy fabric of the oversized tunic he was wearing as far away as possible from his nose. Kibrians, having a different chemical makeup and diet from humans, also had a body odor that was quite… distinctive.

Other than the increasingly nauseating smell of his newly acquired clothing, Chekov had been fortunate in his quest thus far. He'd met no one in the corridors to the kitchen. Once there, he'd headed through the deserted chamber to the still room. The din of the party had still been audible in the distance. A rack of assorted elderly garments hung inside the storage room as he had remembered from what seemed like a lifetime ago. He'd swapped his tunic for the smallest shirt he could find, burying the incriminating cast-off under several others. He'd then pulled off his boots and hidden them at the back of a shelf full of flour bags. The floor beneath the rack was littered with old sandals. He found one that fitted almost immediately but locating its partner had taken what seemed like an eternity. 

He'd also tucked a couple of bread rolls that he'd found on his way to the stairs down to the tunnels inside his shirt. He hadn't eaten since Bolse had force fed him his 'breakfast'. The thought of food made him a little queasy at present, but he decided that he couldn't afford to lose concentration for want of sustenance later on. 

The ensign now stood at the bottom of the stairs holding a lantern he'd appropriated from above, rubbing his swollen cheeks - which were beginning to protest the atrocities perpetrated on them - and wondering which way to go. The entire station, at a rough guess, covered an area of about forty thousand square metres. He was going to need a great deal of luck to find anyone down here, particularly anyone who didn't want to be found. He decided to head north down one of the passages that he remembered Mras identifying as 'places where slags bed down'.

Sound played tricks in the vaulted passages. Chekov's footsteps echoed so strangely that several times he whirled around thinking himself followed, only to find nothing but closing gloom in his wake. Occasionally he heard voices that might have been coming from above, beside, or ahead of him.

At any branching of the passageway, he consistently chose to take the path furthermost to his left in order to simplify retracing his steps. As a professional navigator, he knew he'd die of humiliation before any other factor if he were to become hopelessly lost.

Chekov dimmed his lantern as the glow of another light became visible in the distance. His footsteps sounded extraordinarily loud in the darkness as he tried to creep forward noiselessly.

"Lost, brother?" Simultaneous with this question, a sharp, cold object pierced the ensign's borrowed shirt and broke the skin of his back. Before Chekov recovered from the unavoidable sharp intake of breath inspired by these unexpected actions, someone snatched his lantern. Turning it up to full, they held it blindingly close to his eyes.

"What interest take you here?" the same voice demanded as unseen hands patted him down - presumably searching for weapons. The knife remained pressed to his back.

"I…" Chekov paused and cleared his throat, remembering to lower his voice to an unfamiliar register. "I look for Mras. I… have need to… make speech with him."

"I take no knowledge of Mras," the voice — now becoming embodied as a tall, shadowy form beyond the lantern's glow — responded harshly. "Nor of you."

"But he takes knowledge of me," Chekov replied with equal aggression, deciding to bluff his way through this one. "You'd better see I get to him."

The voice behind the hand holding the knife laughed. "Gives he orders like a kirrie."

"But comes dressed as slag."

Chekov's right hand was seized and summarily examined. The synthetic skin withstood the scrutiny.

"No slag."

This was apparently not welcome news to his little group of inquisitors. At the signal of a grunt from the one holding the lantern in his face, unseen others pinned both Chekov's hands behind him. There was a ripping noise as someone prepared makeshift bonds for him.

"I don't mean you any harm," the ensign protested as he ineffectually struggled against them. "I just want to speak with Mras."

The knife point was reapplied just below his right shoulder blade. "The kirrie's a fool who comes to the tunnels without friend to guard his back."

Chekov had little choice other than to stand obediently still as his hands were secured behind him.

"Mayhap he takes following the dream peddler," another voice speculated as a second strip of cloth was torn and tied double over his eyes. Even through the coarse material, Chekov could see the faint glow of the lantern reflected off the tunnel walls, but he seriously doubted that would be enough to enable him to find his way out of the maze again. "Eh, kirrie? Selrideen take property of you?"

"What?" Chekov heard the sound of yet another piece of cloth being torn. "What are you talking about? Please listen to me, many lives may depend on my speaking to…"

The ensign's plea was unceremoniously cut off by the third piece of cloth being placed over his mouth as a gag.

"Come on, kirrie," a voice said, as they pushed him forward. "We'll take you to Mras. Pray he takes a liking to your looks."

That, Chekov decided as he stumbled blindly down the passageway, was now something of a long shot.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of the Federation Officers spend most of this chapter as the captives of Kibrians...

"Dull work, this," Davies commiserated with her guard.

The large, maroon-skinned Kibrian who had been assigned to 'supervise' her did not deign to respond. He was content to sit like so much statuary in the chair opposite the room's large desk, against which Davies was leaning. Only his small eyes seemed to move.

Davies had wasted the first five minutes she'd been trapped in the tiny office reproaching herself for being stupid enough to be caught in such a predicament. Now, however, her interest was at last turning to her silent companion. The more she thought about it, the stranger it seemed that they would put a guard inside a locked room with her. Normal procedure, it seemed to her, would have been to station the guard outside.

'It's not as though I'm going to do anything worth watching,' she thought. 'Unless I try to choke myself to death on stationery.'

That and a few decorative nick-knacks was all that was available on the desktop. Her guard had done nothing to prevent her trying all the locked drawers.

'It seems reasonable to assume that he might be in here because there's a way out of here they hope I don't find,' she decided after some consideration.

The obvious choice was the window.

"Mind if I get some air?" she said, crossing to it.

The Kibrian showed no signs of life.

Already disappointed, she tried to open the casement anyway. "Locked. What a surprise."

The view wasn't a promising one at any rate. The window opened onto an enclosed courtyard where several obviously highborn Kibrian children were playing — attended, of course, by a phalanx of low castes. Davies knew she wouldn't get ten feet into the garden without being spotted.

Just when she was on the verge of admitting defeat, another possibility occurred to the ensign.

"Lovely room," she said, tapping the very solid-sounding wall next to her. She took a few paces and tapped again. "Isn't it?"

Her guard began to show the first signs of disquiet she'd seen as she moved to the next wall and tapped again. "Please, sit down."

"Oh, and here I was thinking you couldn't talk," Davies said pleasantly as she tested the wall a few feet further along. A section of the wall was covered by a large tapestry — as was common in many rooms in the station. The first two taps sounded solid but the third one had a hollow ring to it. She smiled at the guard as she tapped the spot again. "Kibrian architecture is so fascinating, don't you think?"

"Sit down." The guard drew his weapon. "Now."

"I think you're going to have to make me do that," she informed him pleasantly as she moved to pull the tapestry aside.

The guard tried to do so, crossing rapidly to her and grabbing her by the shoulder. As she hoped he would, he overestimated the impressiveness of his own bulk and underestimated her Academy-trained ability to defend herself. The Kibrian was therefore quite surprised to find himself suddenly flipped onto his back on the floor. To add insult to injury, Davies quickly retrieved his weapon from where it had skidded from his grip and used it to stun him before he regained enough composure to raise an alarm.

"Now, to see what's behind curtain #1," Davies said, lifting the tapestry. Behind it was a door… also locked.

Davies sighed, realizing the Kibrian had assumed she had an ability to improvise lock picking equipment that she could only wish she possessed.

After a moment of despair, she looked down at the weapon in her hand.

"What a bloody fool I turn into sometimes," she muttered, firing at the lock. 

The door swung open, revealing a staircase that descended into darkness.

"Pleasant dreams," she wished her guard before letting the tapestry fall shut behind her.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"It seems strange," Driant commented discontentedly, "that your servant could give us answers so much faster than you can."

"I guess you didn't have him writing with a pen." Sulu stopped in the midst of a complex formula. "Besides, he's more intelligent than you guys give him credit for… I mean, he was more intelligent."

Driant shrugged. "You forget that I did have the opportunity to observe him first hand."

"Yeah," Sulu agreed bitterly. "You guys had him pretty fooled, didn't you? He really thought Kahsheel was in love with him."

"Most servants are easily swept away by their emotions and overawed by attentions from members of the upper castes. Despite the fact that he was an alien, yours was no different."

Sulu squeezed the pen in his hand tightly. "I wish you would quit talking about him that way — calling him my servant. If you want to talk about him, call him by his name. I know you know his name."

"Why does it make a difference?"

"Because that's what killed him," the lieutenant replied. "Being my servant."

"No," the Kibrian rebutted pragmatically. "Swallowing poison killed him."

One of Driant's servants entered to deliver a note.

"Hmm." The Kibrian frowned at the words on the page, then nodded towards Sulu.

"Wait a minute," Sulu protested as the servants took the pen and paper from him and retied his arms. "Hey, I thought we had a deal."

"There's been a change in plans. Nothing to worry about." Driant folded the note and put it inside his robe. "At least, not for me."

He crossed to the door and opened it. A Kibrian entered. His or her face — it was hard to tell — was mostly obscured by a charcoal grey colored scarf.

Sulu swallowed hard. Grey, particularly charcoal, was a color associated with executioners in Kibrian culture.

The unknown Kibrian slowly advanced on him, holding what was unmistakably — despite its unfamiliar design — a hypodermic.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"This is highly irregular, sir!" Johnson protested, attempting to shake off the Kibrian Security Officer who was holding him — a somewhat useless gesture since they had also handcuffed him. "Datvin, I demand to be released immediately!"

The Station Manager closed the door of the Medical Office behind him. "These are irregular times, Mister Johnson. Did you find him in his quarters, Nilm?" 

"No, sir," the most senior of the three officers who had apprehended the meteorologist reported. "He was on his way there from this direction. We found these things on him."

"Hmm…" Datvin frowned at the phaser the officer handed him. "I didn't think you were permitted to carry this in the station except in the case of an emergency, Ensign."

Johnson remained silent, mentally kicking himself for not realizing that 'Mister Johnson, may we speak with you?' should have been his cue to draw his weapon.

"This looks like the piece of medical equipment that Ensign Davies believed stolen." The Kibree smiled as he tucked the small white box inside his robe. "She will doubtless be relieved to see it again… And what is this? Hair?"

Johnson tried to think of a plausible explanation as the Kibrian shook several pieces out of their paper container into his hand.

"Of an alien… but somehow familiar… color and texture," Datvin said, running his long fingers over the strands.

"It's Chekov's," Johnson admitted, deciding the truth was his safest refuge. "I decided to keep it for… sentimental reasons."

"Sir," one of the Security men interrupted. "The body of Lieutenant Sulu's servant is no longer in any of the Federation Officers' quarters."

Johnson swallowed hard. The first bad thing was that the explanation that he and Chekov had concocted for the disappearance of the navigator's corpse presupposed he wouldn't be telling it to Datvin and his assistants. The second bad thing was that if Datvin's men had used the Security override to enter their quarters, they had seen evidence that the team was preparing to evacuate.

"Mister Johnson?" the Station Manager politely invited.

"I had to disintegrate the body," Johnson explained. "It… wasn't lasting well."

"My condolences, Ensign," Datvin replied smoothly. "I don't mean to distress you further in what is obviously an emotional time, but we feel we must place you under… let us say, protective custody, pending the investigation of certain matters."

"What matters?"

"I am not at liberty to discuss that at present, but be assured the Station Director herself will be speaking with you as soon as things are better in hand."

"Good." Johnson nodded, his eyes falling on his translator that still safely held a copy of the Medical Officer's confession. "I have a few things I'm sure she'll be interested to hear."

As if the Kibrian read his thoughts, Datvin reached out and casually plucked the translator from Johnson's belt. "I'm afraid I'll have to confiscate this device also," he said, signalling the security men to take the meteorologist away. 

"Wait! Wait!" Johnson protested as they dragged him down the corridor. "I can't speak Kibrian!"

"How unfortunate," the Station Manager said, smiling.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"We found a kirrie making a wander in the tunnels," one of Chekov's captors announced as they forced him to his knees. From the few clues the ensign could glean through his blindfold, he'd been brought to a large, torch-lit chamber. All around him were the shuffling of feet and the clinking of what sounded like weapons.

"Then you should have killed him there." Chekov instantly recognized Mras' voice.

"Take sight of him, Mras."

To aid in this, the wrappings were pulled from around Chekov's eyes. The dwarf sat before him on an improvised bed of flour sacks stuffed with leaves and old clothes. With his back propped up against more of the same, he was studying what seemed to be a map and marking it with a long piece of charcoal wrapped in rags. He only gave Chekov a brief glance. "An ugly little runt," he commented, before going back to his work. 

"He said he took knowing of you, Mras." The speaker turned out to be Mras' tall friend. Chekov was surprised that he hadn't recognized the servant's voice sooner.

The dwarf's bed was in a partially curtained off corner of the chamber. A lot of activity was going on behind them but when the ensign tried to look in that direction his head was roughly turned back by one of the two Kibrians flanking him. Neither of them seemed specifically familiar, but Chekov thought he might have seen both of them somewhere before.

"I take no knowledge of him." The dwarf didn't bother to look up this time. "If he took calling my name, then he's of Gebain's sending. Kill him."

"He put me in mind of the Feddie," Mras' dark-skinned friend said over Chekov's muffled protests.

"The Feddie's dead," Mras scoffed. "Were this he, we'd be giving him the knife all the same."

Chekov opened his eyes at this — as much as his eyes would open under their thick synthetic-skin-laden lids. He hadn't expected Mras to greet him with open arms, but he certainly hadn't foreseen that the dwarf would advocate killing him.

"I know the Feddie's taken dead," the dark-skinned Kibrian persisted, giving a sign for Chekov's two guards to wait. "But this one… takes his manner… his way of making speech."

"You've taken soft in the head, Ghul," Mras derided. Nevertheless, he folded his map and reaching out with his good arm, pulled the gag away from Chekov's mouth. "Make speech, kirrie."

"I have come to join you," Chekov said slowly and deliberately, trying to minimize the fact that he was the only person on this planet who spoke Kibrian with a Russian accent. "I take knowledge of… of explosives."

From the glances that his captors exchanged over his head, the ensign could see that he'd gotten their attention. It was a dangerous opening, but since his only alternative was being taken out and summarily executed, Chekov figured he had little to lose.

"Who sent you?" Mras demanded.

This was not a question Chekov was prepared for. He didn't even have a wide enough experience with Kibrians to make up a convincing sounding fake. "Selrideen," he answered on impulse.

Mras snorted. "That goes with your thinking, Ghul. Maybe Selrideen has sent the Feddie back in the form of this maggot-chewed kirrie to haunt me."

"Why would a kirrie want to join us?" one of Chekov's guards asked in a surprisingly dialect-free voice. Looking up at him again, the ensign thought he placed him as one of the dining-hall servers — although that didn't seem to explain why he wouldn't speak in slave caste patois.

"Well…" Chekov cast about for a reasonable explanation. He'd never known of a Kibrian doing anything for purely altruistic reasons. "As you see, I'm not a tall person…"

This provoked some general laughter among his captors — even Mras.

"I was lucky not to have become a servant myself," he continued. "My children may not be so lucky. I believe the time has come for change."

"He's no Feddie," Mras asserted, folding his arms. "The Feddies like things the way they are."

"Our Feddie was no tall man," Ghul observed. "He stood only just so high…" The Kibrian placed his hand on top of Chekov's head. "…were he to kneel."

"Give quiet, Ghul," Mras sneered. "Save such fright tales for the nammies." The dwarf's small slanted eyes turned back to the ensign. "I've got a job for wee kirrie."

Although he got the distinct feeling he wasn't off the hook yet, Chekov replied, "I'm willing to do anything."

"Good." The dwarf pulled his map open. "You take knowledge of explosives, eh?"

"Yes."

Mras pointed to a spot with his charcoal stick. "We'll let you put one here."

Chekov wished fervently that he was literate in Kibrian. The page showed what was recognizably a plan of the station annotated with scrawls that undoubtedly outlined the servant's plan. "That's… uhm… one of the main galleries, isn't it?" he guessed from the shape of the place Mras was indicating.

The dwarf nodded. "Here they are laying out the curly red one to rot… but we'll be more kind." The little man grinned at Chekov like a fiend. "We'll let you send her straight to Selrideen."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"Oh, God, what I wouldn't do for a good torch," Davies groaned, picking herself up off the compacted earth. She'd fallen down the last four steps of the ancient and uneven flight., As she felt around for her weapon she told her bruises to be glad it had only been four steps she'd missed. It could just as easily have been half the flight.

With weapon in hand, she peered into the darkness surrounding her. Once the curtain had fallen back into place not a glimmer of light found its way into the under tunnels. Davies tried to remember what Chekov had said about them… they extended up to but not under the kitchens… Mras had attacked Gebain down here and was now hidden somewhere in the mazes… There was a staircase that went up to Kahsheel's quarters somewhere…

Weighing the options that were open to her, Davies considered going back up and apologizing to her guard.

'No,' she decided silently. 'Now's no time to be sitting and waiting for someone else to sort things out.'

Davies wasn't even sure there was such a someone anymore. She swallowed miserably. Chekov was dead — and while that wasn't her fault, her recollections of him were certainly tainted with guilt — Sulu was missing and Johnson — well, she wasn't quite sure what Johnson was good for even if he were at liberty. If the Director had her way, the meteorologist was probably under lock and key already.

'It's up to me,' she decided. 'Now what's your brilliant plan of action, Ensign Davies?'

It would be most helpful if she could reach Mras and discover what his plans were. The obvious problem with this course of action was that she had no idea of where in this labyrinth the dwarf was supposed to be. Even if she did find him, she'd had no previous dealings with the Kibree that would make him inclined to trust her. He was just as likely to have her knifed on the spot.

The only servants she'd really ever talked to were the two servant women who'd come to see about Chekov. They seemed respectful, sympathetic and not entirely devoid of intelligence. Now was not the time to hold their looks against them. Who knows, with access to decent clothes and dentistry, they might not be quite so disastrous. They did seem very fond of Chekov. She supposed it was his good manners. Unlike some young men of her acquaintance, he wouldn't ignore or slight a woman just because she wasn't fashionably attractive. 

'But still, how he could have…' Davies made a face at the thought. 'Must have been the peeva. He hasn't been in control of himself for the last few days… And what's your excuse, Davies?'

She carefully fixed her current position in her mind, then concentrated on recalling the floor plan of the station. Although the offices of the Director were not easily accessible from the kitchens, they were on a parallel corridor and not too distant. It was possible that the tunnels would bear some relation to the building above. Maybe, if she was very lucky, she could find her way to the kitchens and emerge into daylight. And when she got back, she decided to suggest to the captain that Star Fleet uniforms be made out of something flammable in future. Without material to ignite, her stolen weapon was useless in her current plight.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"Manager Datvin." The Medical Officer stepped out into the corridor and directly into the path of his superior. "A crisis has arisen. Your son's condition is deteriorating."

"What?" Datvin halted. "What is wrong?"

"The Federation instrument did not work properly, or I did not use it correctly. There is a hemorrhage at the site of the excision…"

"I will bring you the instrument. I confiscated it from Ensign Johnson…" 

Datvin took a first long stride in the direction of his office, only to be stayed by the Medical Officer's hand.

"No, that won't do. I need advice in its use. There are obviously fine points of technique…" The doctor flapped his robe nervously. "Datvin, you must arrange for me to see the Federation personnel. I believe I can persuade Johnson to assist me… Perhaps by suggesting some harm may befall his colleagues… Does he know the female escaped and is lost in the tunnels? I could offer to send a search party…"

"Are you mad?" the manager snapped. "Who would go down there, today of all days, after what happened to Gebain?" 

"Manager, it is not necessary that we send anyone," the doctor pointed out. "Only that the offer be made. Bring the instrument and take me to wherever Johnson is being held."

"He's under guard," Datvin warned.

"Say I must question him. Concerning the risk of storing a human body on the premises."

"The body is no longer here. He used his weapon to disintegrate it."

The doctor nodded. "Do his guards know that?"

"Yes. He told me himself in front of them." Datvin pulled on his long nose anxiously as he thought. "My son, is he in great danger?"

"Imminent danger," the Medical Officer pronounced, fastening piercing eyes on Datvin.

"Then we must hurry. I will get the instrument and Johnson's translation device from my office." Datvin set off again. "We will think of an excuse for you to speak to Johnson privately," he said over his shoulder, his pace quickening with every step.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"How do you come to take knowledge of explosives, kirrie?" Ghul asked as he shepherded Chekov through the large chamber outside Mras' curtained off enclosure.

"As long as I do," Chekov countered, trying to sound the part of a high caste, "does it matter how?"

His escort made no reply.

The ensign tried to take in all he could without looking too interested in his surroundings. The confusion of light and shadow made it difficult to tell, but there must have been well over thirty people in the large room. Many were rushing around with boxes and armloads of things that looked like they had the potential to be used as weapons. He had trouble seeing people's faces as he was led through the crowd, but everyone seemed to be in slave caste garments and most of the voices he heard sounded masculine. There was the same tension in the air as on the bridge of a starship on red alert. 

"There." Ghul pushed a couple of Kibree aside, revealing a pile of wooden boxes. Their lids had been carelessly ripped off, leaving ugly splinters of timber. Inside were paper-wrapped packages, about the size of a man's forearm. The dark-skinned servant picked one up and waved it under Chekov's nose. "You take knowledge of this?"

Chekov sniffed the package cautiously, then peeled a little of the paper aside with his thumb nail. Whatever was inside was creamy white and soft as cheese. "Yes," he lied. "Where did you get it?"

"Stone quarry. From the manager's house." Ghul patted a stack proudly. "New load. Very fresh."

Presumably this was their explosive. Chekov decided to proceed on that assumption and ignore the possibility that he was being offered something to eat. "How do you propose to detonate it?"

Another Kibree seized a sack and tipped out thirty or forty little devices. Chekov took a frightened step backwards, wary that the action might set them off. When they just lay there on the floor he knelt down to take a closer look. They reminded the ensign of nothing so much as antique mouse traps. As close as he could figure, the devices wound up and then slowly unwound, finally releasing a spring-loaded hammer. Not particularly reliable creations to Chekov's Star Fleet trained eyes. Ghul peeled a bar of explosive and began to tie one of the devices to it. Chekov brought one of the little detonators over to the lantern to try to see how it worked. There was nothing to strike a spark or create a current. It must be simply the shock of the metal arm hitting the back plate that caused the explosive to go up. He stepped away from the boxes again. They were piled in haphazard, tottering columns.

"A hand for curly red's pyre." Ghul grinned and pushed six primed bars together neatly. Chekov breathed in carefully. "The explosion - the main explosion will take place during Engineer Kahsheel's funeral?" 

Ghul nodded. "With all her kin and the kiani and the directors standing about her making a sad face."

Chekov was thankful his own features were stiffened, otherwise they would have betrayed him. "But… but the servants will be at work again then."

Ghul nodded. "In kitchen or in dining hall — making ready the funeral feast. All slags will make way to kitchens — and be safe."

"I see." And the Star Fleet officers, having left the building in response to Mras' warning, would probably have decided to return by then. Sulu, at least, would be sure to be in attendance at a state occasion. Was Mras being cynically murderous, or… No, when he'd warned Chekov, there had been no funeral planned. Presumably the dwarf had adapted his plans to take advantage of the concentration of powerful and hated kiani in the gallery at a single moment, and at a time when servants had every excuse to be elsewhere.

Ghul smiled. "Today is kepir hunt, so kiani will give us service at moonset meal — then die."

His fellow conspirators grinned appreciatively at this irony.

"Come, little kirrie." The big servant pulled the detonator out of the ensign's hands then pushed him away from the boxes. "You will take need to go to gallery half hour before service… to make respect to curly red."

The other Kibree laughed at this as Ghul forced Chekov to sit down between them. "But you take need of more lookly garb to make call on kianis. Take waiting here while I nab cloak from my kirrie."

"Won't that be too large for me?" Chekov asked, trying not to sound like someone who realized he was a prisoner.

"You'll be big with firebricks, kirrie," Ghul assured him, then cautioned his companions, "Take careful watch of this one."

Ignoring the sets of eyes attentively fastened on his person, Chekov leaned back against the rough wall of the cellar and watched Ghul disappear into one of the black tunnel mouths that opened out of this cave. The ensign figured he could probably get away from his guards, but it was ten to one the boxes of 'firebricks' would be overturned in the scuffle. Even if they weren't, and he managed to snatch a lamp to take with him, Chekov was certain that only a short time would elapse before they caught up with him again, or he got hopelessly lost.

The ensign massaged his poor swollen nose and idly wondered if it would ever return to its original shape. When he'd suggested this plan to Johnson, he hadn't stopped to think about how uncomfortable its effects were going to be… or how useless he was going to be.

"Who obtained the firebricks for you?" Chekov asked as conversationally as he could, deciding that he might as well try to get what information he could while he was sitting there. After all, he still didn't know if this nest of subversives was being paid for or otherwise manipulated by some group of kiani.

"What need do you take of knowing, kirrie?" one of his watchers demanded.

"People say that there are kiani behind this," he lied smoothly.

His captors exchanged puzzled frowns.

"Why would kiani want to destroy Selrideen's palace?" The Kibree who asked this turned out to be the server Chekov remembered from the dining hall. "Many of them will die when Mras gives his signal."

Chekov wondered again why this servant spoke so well. Perhaps he was a former high caste - a convicted criminal. Chekov stopped himself from pulling away from the man as he remembered that in the eyes of the Kibrians he himself was a convicted criminal. The ensign knew very well that he was neither stupid not antisocial. Why did he persist in assuming every other servant was?

"Some kiani want to stop the Federation…" Chekov paused and corrected himself. "…the Feddies from coming here. Others want to work with them more. Either side could use this trouble to persuade the government to accept their point of view."

"You think that what we do today is a mistake, eh?" It was Mras who interrupted the conversation. He was leaning on a makeshift crutch and smoking his revolting pipe.

Chekov felt a surge of panic at that naked cinder of peeva so near the boxes of explosive. Then he realized how ridiculous he was being. The room was full of primitive lamps and torches. But the fear in his stomach didn't go away, even when he recognized it wasn't fear at all. He felt his throat grow tight. "Mras…"

The dwarf took a deep drag on his pipe, then blew the aromatic smoke towards the ensign in a long, slow, deliberate stream. "You come to make a spying on us, kirrie?" he asked in a deceptively mild tone.

Chekov couldn't make his mind function. This suggestion required far too complicated a rebuttal. The red glow from Mras' pipe seemed to swell and pulse out into the darkness. "No… No, I came to find you."

The dwarf hobbled closer. "Who told you where to find us? Not Selrideen, I think."

Chekov backed up as far as he could against the wall and held his breath. He knew it made him look guilty, but there was no helping that. He had to get away from that damned pipe. 

"Who sent you here?" The dwarf grabbed the front of Chekov's ragged tunic. The pipe was inches from the ensign's nose. "Was it Gebain?"

When Chekov didn't answer, the dwarf banged him against the wall, forcing the ensign to take in a deep breath of the peeva saturated air around him. 

"It was Gebain, wasn't it, kirrie?" the dwarf demanded.

"Yes," Chekov agreed numbly, meaning only that yes, he would very much appreciate a drag of that pipe. "I mean, no…"

The dwarf smiled with satisfaction as he stepped back, taking the pipe out of the ensign's reach. "Put this lying kirrie in there," he ordered his co-conspirators. "When the time comes, he will be buried alive." 

Chekov couldn't see where Mras was pointing, but he was seized and dragged backwards through a narrow arch. Tripping over what felt like rubble on the floor, he staggered further into the unknown. A door thundered shut and he was in absolute darkness, shaking and sweating with the need for peeva.

"How can it… how can it hit this suddenly?" he whispered to himself. The unseen room was rotating around him. The ensign was cold, so cold. Every bruise he'd acquired in the last few days ached with fresh intensity.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Johnson pulled a chair out from the desk, managing its solid bulk as easily as a native. He sat down as if the two Security Officers weren't there and pondered what he was going to say to the Director when she turned up.

Sulu was missing. Davies had apparently vanished voluntarily. 

Although he couldn't understand Kibrian, the reaction of the guards to the empty room, the unconscious guard and the melted lock was clear enough. The meteorologist was also aware that he'd given the Director enough excuse to keep him here for the moment. The question was, could he persuade her to mount a search for the missing lieutenant? Should he tell her about Mras' plans for the station, or should he simply keep silent and wait for someone else to rescue him?

Chekov was his wild card — however, the trouble with Chekov was his tendency to be the joker in the deck. If he discovered that Mras was independently planning a Spartacus style revolt, Chekov would probably applaud it vehemently and offer to plant bombs himself. No… Chekov was a Star Fleet officer. He wouldn't become involved. So, if Mras was on his own, Chekov would return to their quarters and start trying to round up the team and get them out of the building. He'd be unarmed, unless he could obtain weapons from the slaves. Maybe that was a bit much to hope for.

If, on the other hand, Mras proved to be in the pay of either the conservative or the progressive faction — and either might see the destruction of the Selrideen station as an opportunity to whip up support — Chekov would probably want to contact one of his fellow officers in order to pass a warning to the Director and thwart the planned destruction. Since Sulu and Davies were both missing, Chekov would have to get to Johnson. 

'Therefore,' Johnson decided, 'I must make certain I am available.'

The guards didn't seem inclined to agree. This feeling of helplessness was absolutely galling. If only he knew where Sulu was… or if Davies had waited, so that they could have escaped together… 

Johnson cast his eyes around the room, looking for an alternative escape route that Davies had missed. The two guards watched him, looking very alert and determined not to repeat their colleague's mistake.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Davies wiped tears of frustration out of her eyes with bruised fingers. She didn't even know how long she'd been down here and for all she knew she might be exactly where she'd started.

"This is impossible," she said aloud. "I'm not getting anywhere." 

The texture of the wall was unchanging rough stone, the floor was uniform hard packed earth. Once or twice she'd crunched something underfoot — a beetle she imagined. Each time, she'd barely stopped herself screaming. She wasn't normally nervous or squeamish, but the absolute darkness was nudging her towards hysteria.

The under tunnels weren't silent. The noises she heard were distorted and seemed to come first from one direction, then from the exact opposite. Some boomed and reverberated, as if echoing through pipes. The faint musical sound of running water grew sometimes louder but she never found its source.

'All right, Davies,' she ordered herself, straightening her uniform in the darkness. 'Get a hold on yourself. I will try one more time - going straight ahead if I can, turning alternately right and left if I can't. And then…'

A glimmer of lamp light reflected off a wall. Her eyes wouldn't immediately tell her how distant it was but she impulsively rushed towards it. When it vanished, she still plunged forward. 

And collided with the end of the tunnel. 

"Hello!Can anyone hear me? Is anyone there?" Better to be caught than to starve to death in the dark. "Could someone help me? Please, someone answer!"

There was no answering call, no sign of the lamp's golden glow. 

Davies sat down on the floor, holding her breath until the urge to sob passed. In its place, she began to hiccup.

"Oh, hell." 

She shut her eyes and thought aloud. "I saw the light somewhere along this corridor. I ran about twenty paces before I hit the wall. Whoever had the light must have turned off this corridor somewhere in the last twenty paces. So I just have to try all the turnings. But first… Aah!"

A hand clamped itself over her mouth. "You lost, girl-Feddie?"

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"I must talk to you, Mister Johnson." The Medical Officer entered the office where the ensign was still waiting.

No plausible means of escape had occurred to the meteorologist. Had there been only one guard, or if he hadn't been handcuffed… And if two of Datvin's workmen hadn't just spent half an hour fitting a new, more substantial lock to the door behind the tapestry… 

Johnson jumped to his feet, eliciting startled growls of disapproval from his guards. 

"In private," the doctor continued, waving the Security men towards the door. "It is a medical matter."

"Our orders…" the larger of the two Kibree objected.

"You will wait outside." 

Johnson noticed for the first time that Datvin was standing in the doorway. The manager moved aside to allow his officers to pass him. Then he fixed Johnson with a stony glare. "And you will not cause further trouble. I advise you to cooperate fully with the doctor. Otherwise the consequences for the other members of your party might be serious."

The ensign imagined that, to the security guards, that might sound only like an urging to answer the doctor's questions and take one's medicine. To his ears it carried a more sinister intent.

The door shut on them both. The Medical Officer slid the translator onto the table.

"Let me tell you what I have discovered. Someone claims to have found the body of Lieutenant Sulu, but now there is no trace of it. During the search for Mister Sulu, Engineer Uyal was found unconscious in the power control room. Do you know anything about that?"

Johnson eyed the Kibree suspiciously, ignoring the frightened thrill that shivered him at the thought that he might now be in charge of this ill-fated mission, at least as far as the Kibree were concerned. "I'm sorry, but… how do I know I can trust you?"

The Medical Officer spread his hands wide. "You are virtually under arrest, Miss Davies is in great danger in the tunnels, Mister Sulu is missing — I don't believe he is dead, but you must consider it. Can you afford not to trust me?"

The meteorologist thought hard. "Lieutenant Sulu… had reason to believe someone might try to sabotage the station. We considered that one likely method would be to rupture the gas line under the station, filling the tunnels with gas. Then, when the power came back on at first moonset, the station would be destroyed. He decided to damage the power controls to delay the restoration of power, while we tried to find out what was happening."

"Isn't that interfering?" the Kibree asked.

"Not if the intention of the saboteurs was primarily to kill us."

"I see. And Uyal?"

"Mister Sulu found him there already, setting up an overload that would wreck the station computer, in such a way as to make us look responsible." 

The doctor nodded. "In order to turn the Assembly against further cooperation. I see. Now let me tell you, since you have spoken frankly with me, how I can help you." 

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Davies was led through the tunnels by her captors. They emerged into a great chamber that seemed brilliantly lit in contrast to the dim glow of a single lamp. She wished they hadn't tied her hands behind her. She could have used at least one of them to shield her eyes. As she began to adjust to the brightness, Davies glanced around, trying to take in any clues as to where she now was.

"Day-veez." 

She turned to see who this was that knew her name. A red-bearded dwarf — this had to be Mras, the one who specialized in making trouble for Chekov — hobbled across the chamber towards her.

"Selrideen showers me with gifts today!" the dwarf crowed delightedly. When he snapped his fingers, his comrades pushed Davies down to her knees in front of him. "Hello, Day-veez."

"Hello, Mras," Davies replied bravely, very glad her captors hadn't confiscated her translator along with her weapon.

"I didn't think you knew my name." The dwarf caressed her cheek with one rough, filthy hand. The smell of him was enough to turn her stomach. "But I take knowledge of you, girl-Feddie. You're a lookly little mort, aren't you?"

Davies still couldn't quite figure out the slave patois, but one didn't have to be a linguistics expert to figure what the dwarf meant. "Now, see here…" she began, pulling away as best she could.

"And you're the one who's taken a taste for owning slags, aren't you?" Mras smiled cruelly. "Why are you coming here, Day-veez? To find yourself a new slave boy?"

Davies frowned. How long was that ill-fated charade going to haunt her? "Actually, I didn't intend to come here at all. I'm lost."

"Take property of me, girl-Feddie," a toothless old man begged mockingly. "I'll make a right bedslag for you."

"No, thank you," Davies replied coolly, after the general laughter had died down. "The use of a lantern and a shove in the right direction is all I'm asking."

"Su, but she's a ready little uzhist." A tall green-skinned slave fingered a lock of Davies' hair with rough familiarity. "No need to take killing of her too quickly, eh, Mras?"

The dwarf slapped the green-skin's hand away. "We're not going to kill her at all, maggot brain," he snapped. "We take hostage of this one. When palace falls, the sky Feddies will come back for their dead. If we give this one up to them safe, they will be debted to us. We can make barter with them. They'll build us a new palace and give us kiani as our slags, won't they, Day-veez?"

The ensign's reply of, "I wouldn't count on it," was lost in the rebels' loud chorus of approval for the dwarf's plan.

"Take watch of her," Mras ordered two of his fellow conspirators, then pulled a surprisingly long knife out of his tunic. "But I give warning. The man that makes to touch her will have a tasting of this. And if any take doubting I'm able, ask Gebain."

The thought of the mighty major domo laid low by the little dwarf was an extremely pleasant one for the slaves. They laughed and smiled as they jerked Davies to her feet.

"Ask Gebain!" they echoed, proudly thumping Mras on the back as a sack of some sort was dropped over Davies' head. 

She was dragged away by unseen hands. From the change in noise level, she could tell she'd been taken out of the main chamber. She was held firmly while a door was noisily unbolted. 

"She can keep company with the kirrie 'til we move out," an unfamiliar voice explained to someone.

Davies was pushed forward. The door slammed shut behind her, cutting off any further chance of hearing their plans. She stumbled forward a few steps, bringing her momentum under control. Davies stood motionless, collecting her thoughts and impressions of where she was. The space around her felt small, but the air was fresh. 

And there was definitely someone - or something - else in here. The "kirrie" presumably. What did that mean? Was it some sort of animal? She thought of Sulu's description of the klee fish bite and hoped the occupant of her cell was more friendly than that.

"Hello?" she ventured quietly.

Cold and clammy fingers clutched at her leg.

Davies cried out and stepped back quickly.

"I'm sorry," a raspy voice said in Kibrian. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

There was something very familiar about that voice. "Who are you?" Davies asked, keeping well away, with her back pressed to the wall.

"Wait, wait." There was a stirring in the opposite corner of the small cell. "You have a translator… Davies?"

Davies swallowed. Although dry and cracked, the sound of that voice was unmistakable… unbelievable, but unmistakable. "Who are you?" she demanded again.

"Davies, is that you?" the other occupant of the cell asked hoarsely. "What are you doing here? Davies, please, please, tell me you have some of those blue pills."

"Tell me who you are," Davies repeated, refusing to believe her ears.

"Don't you recognize my voice?"

Davies shook her head stubbornly. "You can't be who I think you are."

The other person gave a giddy, delirious sounding laugh. "All right, tell me who I am."

"You sound like Chekov, but… but Chekov is dead," Davies stated, despite the growing evidence to the contrary. 

"Yes, but he was a nicer fellow than you were giving him credit for, wasn't he?" the other person half-whispered. Whoever this was sounded badly dehydrated.

"Chekov?" She stepped forward uncertainly. "How can you be here?"

Her companion laughed weakly. "I was just asking myself the same question. Davies, please, do you have any of those blue pills?"

"No, I don't have any blue pills." Davies edged forward, wishing the slaves had been kind enough to take that damned sack off her head. "Johnson said you were dead."

"Johnson says lots of people are d-d-de…" The voice abruptly stuttered to a halt. It sounded as if the other person was taken with a violent fit of trembling.

"What's happening?" Davies didn't move closer for fear of stepping on him. "Are you all right?"

The sounds subsided after only a few seconds. "I'm… I'm… feeling a little ill," the other person admitted shakily.

Davies got down on her knees and moved close enough that she could feel the heat of the other person's body. Whoever this person was, he certainly smelled terrible. "Here, untie me."

"Just a moment… just a moment," the voice pleaded weakly. "Too dizzy… Please, Davies, please give me one of those blue pills."

"Listen to me, Pavel," Davies said firmly. "I don't have any pills with me. You've got to untie me now. I've got to get us out of here."

"Why do you hate me?" the other person asked plaintively, through chattering teeth. "Why do you make Sulu hate me?"

"You're talking rubbish," Davies replied gently, twisting her wrists in an effort to see if she could get herself free.

"What did you tell him that I did that night… that night at Ka-k-k-k…"

"It doesn't matter now," she soothed as another violent fit of trembling took the other person. Her bonds were beginning to loosen.

"It… it… it matters to me."

"I…" Davies broke off as tears began to form in her eyes. This had to be Chekov. Who else would know about the incident in Kahsheel's quarters? Who else would care? "Chekov, is it really you?"

"Wh-wh-what did you tell him?" the other person demanded, an irrational edge entering his voice.

"Here," she said, bending down towards him. "Just hold on to this sack and I'll pull myself out."

"No," the other person replied irritably. "Not until you… What did… what did you tell him?"

"Oh, for the love of Jesus, Chekov!" Davies closed her eyes in frustration. If she could get out of this place — which was doubtful — how was she going to get out with someone who seemed to be on the verge of going stark raving mad? "I didn't say… All right. Maybe I didn't make you look very good in my report. But you'd made me sound so… so forward to Sulu, I just… Well, I suppose I defended my virtue a little too vigorously. And I'm sorry," she added, meaning it. "Whoever you are, I'm sorry. Now, will you hold on to this?"

Cold, sweaty fingers gripped at the material near her shoulder.

"No, no… up, up…" she directed. "Good. Now hold on as tight as you can."

"Do I..? Do you think I..?" the person asked as she wriggled out of the sack backwards. "Does it seem to you that I like aggressive women?"

"What are you going on about?" Davies asked, shaking free of the bag at last. A little glow was seeping into the cell from beneath the door but there wasn't enough light to make out anything more than the rough shape of the person.

"Sulu said…" he rattled on in the earnest manner of a feverish child. "He told me… He said I like aggressive women."

"You love aggressive women," she assured him. "Now shut up for a minute."

There were footsteps outside the door and the sounds of a violent disagreement. The door burst open and lamplight flooded the tiny chamber.

"…crack brain ideas!" Mras was yelling at someone. "Do I have to take doing everything myself? Get her out of here!"

Davies glanced anxiously at Chekov as two guards approached her, but the figure next to her was not even human. The man lying on the floor was a brown-skinned Kibree with short, dark hair and a beard. He weakly put a hand up to shield his face from view as the guards dragged her away.

"Who are you?" she cried, before the door slammed between them.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

The dwarf remained in the cell with his captive. He set his lamp down near the door then walked over to where the man was lying and prodded him with his foot. "How do you fare?"

"Mras…" His prisoner groaned and doubled over in agony. "I'm going to die…"

"The dwarf grinned. "That shouldn't bother you, Feddie."

The man curled at his feet didn't seem to take any notice of how he was being addressed. "Please…"

The dwarf took a flask from his pocket and knelt. Putting an arm around his prisoner's shoulders, he lifted the other man up to a half-seated position and put the flask to his lips. The man tried to pull away at first, but then, realizing what he was being offered, took the flask from the dwarf's hands and drank greedily.

"Clear your head a little?" the dwarf asked, sitting back on his heels.

His captive slowly lowered the flask and blinked at him. "Mras? Mras, do you have any…"

The dwarf pulled a tarry lump out of his tunic. "Peeva? Is that what you want?"

Chekov swallowed resolutely. "Blue pills."

Mras chuckled. "Poor Feddie," he said, breaking off a corner of the lump with his teeth. "Still afraid the kibbie-eyed one will take stick to you? Here, just a little chew to give you ease."

Chekov found he couldn't make his mouth stay shut when the dwarf held the bit of peeva out to him.

"That's better." Mras patted the ensign on the head as he slowly chewed the morsel. "Answer my questions, like a good slag, and you'll have the rest."

Chekov closed his eyes as warmth and life flowed back into his body. After a few moments, he put the flask to his lips again and drained the rest of the fruit juice. The dwarf was sitting on his heels watching him.

Mras grinned. "Gall's balls, Feddie, but you make an ugly Kibbie."

It took Chekov an unreasonably long time to figure out what was wrong with what the dwarf was saying. "Mras…" he protested at last.

"Don't trouble yourself to make denial, Feddie," the Kibree interrupted. "I know who you are. I took knowledge of you from the first. 'Mee-rras', the dwarf mimicked the ensign's distinctive pronunciation of his name. "No one else makes speech as you do."

Chekov shook his head slowly. This was too much to sort through as quickly as he knew he needed to. "Then why..?"

"Why didn't I tell the others who you were?" The dwarf shrugged. "They don't need to know everything."

Chekov kept silent. He still wasn't sure this wasn't just another hallucination.

The little man reached out and touched the ensign's swollen cheeks and nose and heavy eyelids curiously. "To die and come back as a Kibbie… That's a good trick, Feddie."

"It would have been a better one to come back as a Kibbie who wasn't addicted to peeva," Chekov said, rubbing his head.

"Why did you come here, Feddie?" Mras asked. "Did you truly come here to join us?"

"I came here to talk to you."

"Mmmmmm." It didn't look as if this answer entirely pleased the dwarf. "I didn't think you were saying true. I gave order for you to place the firebricks as a testing of you."

"Then why did you denounce me before I even had a chance to leave?"

"Because the more I thought, the more I knew you would fail my testing." Mras smiled grimly. "You were always a fool for the curly red one's form when she lived. Her taking dead might not make a difference. She has taken dead, eh, Feddie?"

Chekov sighed. "As far as I know."

"Too bad. She would have paid good ransom for you."

Chekov shook his head as the dwarf's unfailing avarice. "How did you get out of her quarters after I left you there?"

Mras shrugged. "Nard takes knowledge of me."

The ensign thought he sensed a little uneasiness in the dwarf's explanation then thought of a reason why it might be there. "You were working for Kahsheel, weren't you?"

"I took hand of jewels off curly red if she offered," Mras admitted remorselessly.

"To 'take sight' of me?"

The dwarf nodded. "I took pay from others too — station manager, station director, kiani who take more knowledge of you than you of them…"

Although he'd known for a long time what a heartless creature the little Kibree could be, Chekov couldn't help feeling betrayed. "Why?"

"Some wanted you dead, some wanted you alive. All wanted to know how you fared — and who else was interested in taking sight of you."

"No, I mean, why did you do it?"

"For the jewels, Feddie. I had use for jewels."

Chekov frowned, remembering the explosives and arms he'd seen. "I think there's more here than you and the others could scrounge or steal. There's a kiani financing at least part of your revolution, isn't there?"

Mras nodded approvingly. "For a stupid Feddie, you can make good use of your brains sometimes."

"But who would do such a thing, and why?"

"You don't need to know everything, Feddie." The dwarf smiled and chuckled to himself. "And neither does she."

"She?" A light went on inside the ensign's brain. "You're working for the Station Director, aren't you, Mras? But you plan to double cross her somehow."

"Take ease, Feddie," the dwarf advised, pulling the plug of peeva out of his pocket. "You always make speech at just the moment you should take quiet."

"No, I don't want that," Chekov said, contradicting what his body was telling him.

"You will." The dwarf laid the peeva beside the ensign, then placed two more lumps on top of it.

Chekov had to close his eyes and clench his fists to resist the urge to down it all at once. "If I took so much, it would kill me," he choked, speaking more to himself than to the dwarf.

"No," the dwarf said, rising. "It will just make sure that you do or say anything I tell you to."

"Mras, you can't go through with this plan to blow up the station…"

The dwarf shrugged as he crossed to the door. "There's nothing else for me."

Chekov nodded, trying to concentrate on this, rather than the peeva beside him. "Because you tried to kill Gebain? Assaulting a member of a higher caste must be a serious offence…"

The dwarf smiled as he rapped out a signal for the guards to open the door for him. "The punishment for it is quicker and a little less painful than what they do to runaway slags who try to impersonate kiani."

"Mras," the ensign called out desperately as the door opened only a dwarf-sized crack. "Think of the lives at stake…"

"I might give thought to that," Mras conceded as he passed through. "But you… You'll give thought only to peeva, eh?"

-o- -o-o-o- -o-<

"Driant, you're making a big mistake."

The Kibree ushered his servants out through the door with impatient hand gestures then glanced back at Sulu.

"The information I've given you is useless," Sulu told him, hoping that the loss of one plank from his raft would make the kiani think again.

"For a moment, I was inclined to question my orders concerning you, but now…" Driant curled his lip contemptuously. "Goodbye, Lieutenant."

The executioner put a hand on Sulu's arm — as if the Lieutenant could move away. He raised the hypo and pushed up the sleeve of Sulu's Star Fleet tunic.

"Listen." Sulu's heart was pounding in his throat. "I'll… I don't know how much he's paying you, but I'll double it."

"I have no need of jewels," the executioner stated categorically.

The needle slid unfelt under Sulu's skin, but the contents of the hypo were painfully cold.

Sulu stared at his arm disbelievingly. He felt more upset than frightened. His mission… his team… if he managed to talk this guy around… if the medikit was accessible somewhere… 

The Kibree backed away, watchful. 

Sulu felt little ripples of dizziness stirring inside him. "If you let me go… If you help me get to my people… maybe we could work something out."

The executioner shook his head. 

"Who gave the order to kill me?" Sulu demanded. "For God's sake, have the decency to tell me that. Who decided they wanted me dead, and why?"

The Kibree maintained his silence. After a long moment he replaced the hypodermic into a small case and turned away. 

"Please," Sulu begged, not for himself but for the others whose lives he held in his hands… as he'd held Chekov's.

The executioner opened the door and hesitated, as if waiting to verify that his poison had taken effect. A wave of giddiness surged over Sulu and he didn't actually see the Kibree leave. A moment later, he became aware that he was sitting with his fists clenched and his eyes shut, the dizzy sensation momentarily under control.

"Dammit!" It occurred to him that he had failed by every standard he could imagine. He'd failed his captain, his team and his friend — everyone who had depended on him. He'd failed them by kow-towing to the vilest regime imaginable in the name of the Prime Directive. Kirk would have found some way around it. As Chekov had said, the very fact of them being here twisted everything, every motivation, made the people around them vulnerable, made the team themselves vulnerable. 

'It doesn't do any good for me to get angry,' Sulu told himself. Or to cry tears that he couldn't even wipe away because his wrists were still bound. The only thing that would help was to think of a way out…

Unfortunately there wasn't one. If his team — what was left of it — survived, it would be by their own efforts. He was afraid, afraid that he was going to die before he made sure that Davies and Johnson at least would survive this posting.

"Your officers have been detained by the Director. She means to accuse them of a plot to destroy the station. Ensign Johnson was heard to issue threats. They are in custody…"

"In custody?" Sulu jumped, bound though he was, at this sudden interruption to his misery. He opened his eyes to find that Selrideen — that apparition of ill omen — had invaded his cell. 

"…And will die when the Station is destroyed. Driant and his cohorts intend that you shall die too, or be already dead, in a manner that implicates the servants or certain kiani…"

"Do you mean that Driant knows about Mras' plans? And if he does, why doesn't he do something to stop him?"

"Servants are…" The Kibree sighed. "It is easy to be sentimental about them, but the fact is that they will betray each other for as little as a kind word. Anyone could have told him… if indeed he does know."

Sulu shook his head impatiently. "Are you saying he knows, or he doesn't?"

"Either is possible," the Kibree replied. "It is also true that Kahsheel did not achieve the cleansing death she planned."

"Because she wasn't able to get Chekov to drink enough poison to die immediately. He lived long enough to talk to me.." Sulu felt very sick. "…and Johnson. That makes the two of us loose ends. Is that what you're trying to tell me? The progressive faction decided to pump me for information then kill me and they'll try to do the same thing to Johnson?"

The Kibree spread his hands. "It is possible."

Sulu shook his head as his vision narrowed down to a tunnel framed in dark, hazy grey. "But killing Federation officers, or letting the station be destroyed is disastrous for pro-Federation interests."

"Depending on how such incidents are framed," Selrideen pointed out, "and where the blame is ultimately placed. Such incidents could quite probably force a change in leadership. You realize the current leadership is not pro-Federation, of course."

"I've gotten that impression," Sulu admitted, swallowing his growing nausea. He realized only his bonds were keeping him from sliding out of the chair. "But frankly, this sort of thing could make the Federation say to hell with this planet."

"Some believe that if the Federation can be convinced that the under castes are dangerous, they will react with an injection of technology to improve standards of living and make the underprivileged less dissatisfied with their lot."

"Well, they're dead wrong," Sulu replied bleakly. He was beginning to feel oddly resigned to dying here, powerless to intervene in the awful succession of disasters hanging over the Station. "As someone who's read all the socio-economic reports on Kibria, I can tell you the odds on the Federation reacting that way in this situation are about a million to one against. Someone — or some people — is about to make a terrible, terrible mistake."

Selrideen settled down cross-legged onto the floor. "The situation is out of control. My grasp of events and people is failing. This is beyond what I know." 

The dream-peddler sounded sincere, as far as Sulu could judge. His brain seemed to clear fractionally. "Look, I don't know who you are, or what you're trying to do, but my officers haven't done anything to anyone. They're innocent of any involvement in your world. The Federation is too big, too dispassionate, to be swayed by the deaths of a handful of its officers. You seem to know things, to be able to get things done. Please, before Mras blows up the station, get my people out."

"I cannot."

"Why not? All you need to do is fabricate an excuse to get them out of the building…

"I have no power. Only knowledge, often more a burden than a blessing. With some I have influence. With my servants. The Director is not one of them, nor is Mras. I hoped to reach Mras through Chekov, but… You're alien. I overlooked that somehow. A kiani in Chekov's place, stripped of dignity, of possessions and family, would have been mine. He only mistrusted me. As you do. I am powerless where there is no faith."

Sulu ignored the mystic's meanderings. "Please…"

"Perhaps it is just that you should die now. How can I know whether you are fit to live?"

"My officers…"

"You think they deserve mercy? Why? There are kiani in this station who honor the spirit of our law and deal compassionately with the unfortunates in their care… that was the origin of the caste system, you realize. A method of providing protection and employment for those who would otherwise have perished in a harsh and unforgiving world. Then we discovered the pleasure of owning souls. It became necessary to broaden the scope of the servant caste, so that there might be something there worth owning. That was our mistake. Must I somehow go among all the kiani and sort out the good from the evil?" The dream peddler looked severely at Sulu. "Tell me, how will posterity judge your own record as a slave-owning kiani? Do you know our scripture: 'Kideo is surrounded by stars as a just and kindly Kibree is worshiped by his children and his servants.'?"

The lieutenant found he couldn't meet the other man's eyes. "I know I let Chekov down."

"So, if I can save one soul in this station, should it be Miss Davies? If two, do I include Mister Johnson, or should I remember the kindnesses of cooks and the compassion of engineers?" 

The two sat in silence for nearly a minute.

"Selrideen…"

"You are right. All are Selrideen's servants and all must be saved." The Kibree leaned forward and began untying Sulu's ankles. "I must go about my work. For as our scriptures also say: 'Servants left to light a fire will singe their hair.'"

Sulu worked his feet, ready to stand and run. "The poison…"

"Poison?" The mystic turned and looked down at the lieutenant with Olympian calm.

"Driant sent someone with a… He injected me with…"

"And where does everyone get their poisons?" Selrideen asked rhetorically, moving on to Sulu's wrists. "That was a slow one. It won't kill you for a few hours yet. If you trust me and do what I require, you will live." He put out a hand to steady Sulu as he stood. "Do you trust me?"

"You mean you have an antidote?"

"An antidote?" The dream-peddler shook his head. "The antidote is worse than the poison. You should only take it from someone you trust. Is there anyone here you trust? Anyone at all?"

Sulu thought of all the Kibree he'd dealt with. He didn't understand them or their hidden agendas. Then he realized that Selrideen was referring to something else entirely. Did he trust Davies? His heart seemed to stop as he considered that question. He liked her a great deal, but trust? If he believed her, he had to disbelieve Chekov, or at least their respective interpretations of what had happened between them. No, he didn't completely trust Angharad, he decided — not without regret but not in anger. He believed she cared for him. He just didn't know what that might lead her to do. Did he trust Johnson? He didn't like him… But he felt that the meteorologist was all that was left to him. 

"Yeah," he answered firmly. "There is."

Selrideen nodded. "Good. I'm glad you've realized that. Here…" He held out a minute ceramic sphere. "This is the antidote. It combines three elements, two of which you have encountered before: kepir and peeva. The third is known only to me. Accept it only from someone you trust, and only when you have done what I require."

"And what's that?" Sulu demanded, watching the mystic slip the little container back into his robe. 

Selrideen stood up. "Follow your heart." 

As Sulu watched, the Kibree's hand emerged from the dark blue fabric of his robe and opened to release a pair of fluttering pastel-colored moths as large as sparrows.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

The Medical Officer paused and took a deep breath. "Do you know anything about the political history of Kibria?"

Johnson nodded. "I've scanned several of the available tapes. I'm afraid I might not be able to recall all the pertinent names and dates…"

The Kibree held up a hand. "It is sufficient that you know that before we implemented our present system, this area was ruled by a royal family."

"Yes." Johnson paged through his mental notebook. "The revolution occurred during the Fifth dynasty of the House of…"

The Kibree cut him off with an impatient gesture. "Our current station director is of that ancient line," he informed the ensign weightily.

'Interesting, but not immediately relevant,' Johnson thought, but instead said, "So, she's following in the family business?"

"Yes. And unfortunately, it seems that particular family has taken some… less than ethical steps to see that administration remains a viable career path for family members. As you know, Kibrian children take a multifaceted test called the Vaytha. It seems that our Director — as well as many, many other members of her family — did not take all parts of the Vaytha. Her family controls the local testing committee. She did not take parts of the test where there was a possibility that she might fail."

Johnson nodded slowly. "And now she's being blackmailed?"

"And through her, her entire family, many of whom hold positions of power. Their exposure would result in a scandal of such proportion that it would cause great instability throughout this entire region."

"Who are the blackmailers?"

"Someone within the Rinegeld conglomerate."

"An energy resource company?" Johnson guessed, remembering the hints the Kibree had dropped in an earlier conversation.

"Yes. Datvin only recently became aware of this situation. However, already he has enough evidence to force the Director's resignation. He hoped to do this quietly…"

"…After we Federation representatives had gone?"

"Yes. However, if she is linked with this attempt to destroy the station, her immediate removal would be assured, making things a good deal easier on certain other members of her family. We think the blackmailers have direct evidence only for the falsification of the Director's own Vaytha results, whatever they may suspect about the rest."

"Doctor," Johnson began uneasily.

"No," the Kibree cut him off firmly. "You need not give me any further information. Datvin is completely capable of gathering the necessary evidence himself."

Johnson hesitated on the verge of telling the Kibree that the Federation was investigating not one but possibly two separate plans to blow up the station. The part of his mind that Star Fleet owned told him that he'd said more than enough. He'd put the local authorities into action; anything further was interference. As the doctor said, Datvin had his own sources.

"How can you be so sure about what Datvin knows and what he will do?" he asked instead.

The Medical Officer blinked in surprise. "It isn't obvious to you?" he asked, then smiled. "I begin to forget you're an alien, Johnson, and we must all look as alike to you as you do to us. Datvin is my grandmother's brother's eldest son by his legal wife. In addition to being his colleague, I am bound to him by certain traditional obligations and responsibilities of kinship."

"Oh," the meteorologist said, embarrassed to confirm that other than being different shapes, sizes and colors, Kibrians did look a lot alike to him.

"Johnson." The Kibrian drew closer and lowered his voice. "Another reason I came to speak to you is that I am attempting to make arrangements to see that there is a problem at the Alareen Relay Station that requires your attention."

Alareen was a small facility to the west. "You're trying to get me off the station?"

"Temporarily."

"I really appreciate the offer, but I've got to stay…"

"Ensign," the Kibree interrupted, "your life is in danger. When the political climate stabilizes, you will be free to return. But for the moment, you must trust my judgement."

For a moment, Johnson's vocal chords were paralyzed at the thought of abandoning Sulu, Davies and Chekov — who were all more than equally endangered. "But I…"

"No arguments." The Medical Officer put his finger to his lips as he rose and quickly backed to the door. "I'm sure you will be allowed to attend the dinner tonight. If my plan has not already taken effect, you will have an opportunity to see me again there."

"But…"

The door closed, then immediately reopened to admit Johnson's ever-faithful guards.

'Oh, God,' Johnson thought silently burying his face in his hands. 'If nothing changes before dinner, there's no use having a plan."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Chekov wasn't sure how much time was passing. It might have only been minutes since the dwarf's departure. It felt like years. As Mras had predicted, all he could think about was the three lumps of peeva.

He was holding one of them in his hand now. He'd waited what seemed like a very long time without touching any of them. And now he'd held this piece of peeva for a very, very, very long time without eating any of it.

"I don't want it," he whispered to himself, holding the piece tightly in his hand and letting his mouth brush against it. "I don't want it. I don't want it."

When he licked his lips, he could taste peeva on them. He wanted this stuff so badly, it almost killed him to pull the piece away from his mouth.

"If I can figure out a way of calculating the passage of time," he told himself, "then I can develop a system of rationing…"

That seemed simple enough. What was a good interval? Thirty minutes. How many seconds in thirty minutes? One thousand, eight hundred. Fine. So he could have a little now…

Chekov's hand shook as he broke off a minuscule flake with his fingernail and laid it on his tongue.

"One… two…" he began, letting his head fall back against the hard stone wall as the warm glow enveloped him. "…tree… cheteeri… vorsim… djevitch…"

The hand holding the peeva had already begun to wander back towards his mouth when the ensign heard a muffled thud outside the door of his cell.

He put his hand over the lumps of peeva protectively as the door creaked and a figure entered.

Chekov's eyes couldn't adjust quickly enough to make out any details of the figure as it swiftly bore down on him. 

"Are you truly a servant of Selrideen?" A familiar-sounding voice asked, as the visitor grabbed him by the shirtfront.

"Yes," Chekov replied without hesitation, since this was obviously the correct answer.

Without any further elaboration, the figure pulled him to his feet and hustled him out of the door. The ensign's eyes closed against the relative brightness of the corridor, but this didn't last for long. The figure swiftly herded him into a dark, winding passageway.

At first the ensign's main concern was that he was able to maintain his grasp on all three of his lumps of peeva, but slowly it dawned on him that a very good — although rather puzzling — thing was happening. Someone seemed to be helping him to escape.

They traveled along in darkness and silence for an indeterminable length of time. Chekov's rescuer seemed completely sure of himself, never hesitating as he swiftly guided the ensign along the maze of tunnels. 

Even before they turned onto a passageway filled by murky sunlight escaping through a partially open doorway at the top of a stairway, the ensign had identified his companion.

"This is as much as I can do," said the tall servant who spoke without slave caste dialect, stopping at the foot of the stairs. "I will be missed, and your escape will not go unnoticed for long. Tell Selrideen that the time has changed and to beware the funeral. He will know what I mean."

"But…" The servant had turned and disappeared into the shadows before Chekov had time to frame a response.

"Well… Thank you," the ensign said quietly to the direction the Kibree had left in.

He cautiously climbed the steps, trying to minimize any creaking and let his eyes adjust slowly to the light.

The half-opened door opened into a small courtyard. Chekov blinked in the sunlight. The courtyard was completely surrounded by walls. It looked like a herb garden of some sort. There were several doors, but all of them were shut.

Chekov looked at the peeva he was holding and wondered if he shouldn't find somewhere to bury it. It gave him a terrible pain in his chest to even consider doing such a thing, but he knew he couldn't very well walk around the station carrying handfuls of peeva.

He'd spotted a secluded corner and was moving towards it when someone called out from behind. "Hey, aren't you supposed to be in here?"

"N-n-no," he said, quickly putting his free hand on the first door knob he came to. "I was going this way."

He opened the door and stepped inside…

…Only to find himself standing about seven paces away from Gebain.

The major domo was half-reclining in a wheeled chair. Two of his assistants stood by him consulting a large piece of parchment. They all looked up at the new arrival.

Chekov swallowed, sending his heart far enough back down his throat to allow him to say, "Excuse me."

"It's all right," Gebain called, gesturing him inward. "You can come through here, sir."

"No," Chekov smiled as he backed out. "No, thank you."

He closed the door and found the cook was still watching him. 

The ensign smiled and shrugged as he backed quickly away. "Wrong door."

He was only a few steps away from the next door when Gebain's door reopened.

"Hey, sir!" One of Gebain's assistants pursued him with long, purposeful strides. "Could you come here a minute. Gebain wishes to speak to you."

"I'd love to," Chekov said, without slackening his pace towards the next portal, "but I am really in a hurry. Maybe some other…"

The door was locked.

"This will only take a minute," Gebain's assistant assured him as his big hands landed on the ensign's shoulders. "This way, please."

'Oh, God,' Chekov groaned inwardly. It was possible, if fate was not being incredibly vicious, that he had not been recognized and Gebain and his men were just curious as to what a strangely dressed Kibree was doing in a place where he had no business being. The ensign hoped with all his might this was true as he carefully put his hands into his pockets and emptied them. Nonetheless, he entered the doorway about as cheerfully as he would have walked through the gates of hell.

"Forgive me for not standing," Gebain apologized, "but I've had an injury."

Gebain's assistant closed the door behind him, with what sounded to the ensign's ears a most ominous thud. Chekov found that he was in one of the storerooms off the kitchen. The table and benches that were usually here had been moved aside for the major domo's chair. The door to the main kitchen was open. Low castes passed by doing work normally done by servants.

Based on his experience with Mras, the ensign decided that the less he said, the longer his true identity might remain a mystery. Instead of answering, he merely nodded and made an acknowledging noise. "Mmmm."

The major domo said nothing for a long moment as he carefully looked him up and down. "I thought you might be one of the technicians who drew kitchen duty for the kepir hunt meal, but I don't seem to recognize you."

"Mmm." Chekov shook his head. So far, so good.

"You're new at this station?"

"Mmmm." It was surprisingly hard to remember to look at Gebain's face instead of at the floor. It was so much more comfortable to look at the floor. One couldn't look into the floor's eyes and see its brain going tick, tick, tick…

"What were you doing in the garden?"

"Lost m'way," Chekov answered in the lowest, most indistinct voice he could manage.

"Oh." For some ungodly reason, the major domo's eyes seemed to settle on Chekov's pocket. "I see you've had an accident too."

The ensign held his breath as he looked down, expecting to find that the peeva was somehow visible.

"I mean your hand."

The synthetic skin… But, no. Chekov frowned. It was still in place. There was no sign of the brand it covered.

"Did you burn it?"

Looking at both his hands, Chekov could see the problem. While the back of his left hand was covered with fine dark hairs, the back of the right one was smooth, bare and slightly discolored because of its synthetic coating. "Yes."

"Oh."

Another agonizing moment of silent observation passed. Chekov swallowed, willing his heart to beat a little more softly. It had to be audible even from where Gebain was sitting.

"Where did you want to go?"

Chekov pointed back the way he had come.

"It's easier to get into the main corridor this way." The major domo gestured to the door behind him.

Taking that as a dismissal, Chekov nodded his thanks and walked towards the door that went out through the kitchen. He certainly knew his way back to his quarters from there. All he had to do now was just… get… past… Gebain… Don't look down. Don't do anything suspicious… Only inches to go…

"Come back here, Chekov," Gebain said quietly.

The ensign willed himself not to have heard and kept moving.

"Ijzo."

There was no use pretending he hadn't heard that. Chekov bolted.

He didn't get too far. He wasn't sure how many low castes it took to knock him down and drag him back to Gebain It felt like several hundred. In the kitchen at this time, Gebain had sympathizers to spare, while Chekov had none.

The major domo had obtained a knife from somewhere.

"Mols, Hrith, Ijzo, bring him back here," he ordered. "The rest of you, back to your assignments. Hsit, close the door behind you."

As the number of people holding him diminished, the ensign redoubled his struggles. It was to no avail. Gebain's three remaining stooges held him more securely than the mass had.

"Give me his hand."

Gebain's assistants forced Chekov down to his knees in front of the wheeled chair for their master's convenience. The big, blue-skinned Kibree took a firm grip on the ensign's right hand.

"I hope I'm not making a mistake." Gebain smiled as he applied the knife's tip. "I'd certainly owe someone a very big apology."

Chekov tried desperately to pull away — more as a physical reaction than as a reasoned plan.

"Hold still," the Kibree cautioned as he began to scrape away the synthetic skin. "I'd feel terrible if I were to accidentally cut it off."

It took an obscenely short time for the S and U of Sulu's name to re-emerge. That was all the proof the Kibree needed. A free person would not have a branded hand at all and there were no similar-looking letters in the Kibrian alphabet.

Gebain smiled at Chekov. "Somehow I had the feeling you weren't dead."

The ensign certainly wished he was at that moment. He struggled vainly against the hands holding him.

"You're certainly being uncharacteristically quiet," Gebain observed.

"I have nothing to say to you," Chekov spat back.

"We'll see." Gebain folded his hands over his bandaged midsection. "Ijzo, is there any rope in here?"

"I'll get some, sir."

"Ijzo," he stopped his assistant at the door. "No one needs to know about this miracle yet. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"I had to defy doctor's orders to come here," Gebain told the ensign. "I was beginning to think that I had overreacted. My staff has things well under control. As you well know, much of the preparation for this meal took place last night and this morning. And although this crew of low-castes are not experienced, they work better than double their number in servants. However, you have single-handedly made my trip down here worthwhile."

"I demand you take me to Lieutenant Sulu," Chekov said, despite the fact that his life was beginning to pass before his eyes.

"You're in no position to be making demands," Gebain informed him as Ijzo returned. "Do you know what the penalty is for impersonating a member of a higher caste?"

Chekov swallowed hard. "Then take me to the security office."

"I have an agreement with the security office," the Kibree replied. "Any servants that I send there go with their confessions already in hand."

Chekov threw himself violently backwards in one last desperate attempt to break free, but Gebain's men didn't lose their grip. Two of them wrestled him to the floor and held him there while Ijzo tied his hands. The Kibree looped the other end of the rope over a rafter. After warning his colleagues away, he then used it to haul the ensign to his feet.

"Not too high," Gebain cautioned, stopping his assistant when Chekov's wrists were suspended only slightly above the ensign's head. "No need to make him too uncomfortable… at first."

The major domo wheeled his chair over so that he was facing Chekov.

The ensign tried to get his breathing back under control. Just being tied up was something of a relief. For a moment, he'd thought they were going to hang him.

Gebain looked at his assistants and then nodded towards Chekov's chest.

"It feels strange to have other people do my dirty work for me," he told the ensign as his assistants tore the filthy shirt off Chekov's back. "It makes me feel like a kiani."

On the other hand, Chekov decided a quick death might be preferable to what the Kibree had in mind for him.

"Mister Gebain," he said reasonably, since a change in tactics certainly couldn't hurt the situation. "As far as a confession goes…"

"Yes?" Gebain said generously.

Chekov stood up as straight as he could. "No coercive techniques are necessary. I readily admit that I have broken certain restrictions placed on me. And I am prepared to pay whatever penalty I must. However…"

"Your guilt is self-evident," Gebain interrupted him. "I'm more interested in your accomplices."

Chekov's mouth went dry. "Accomplices?"

Gebain nodded. "You didn't accomplish your death and resurrection by yourself. I want to hear what parts your friends played… Your friends like Mras and Kahsheel and Mister Johnson and perhaps even your master."

"Mister Sulu had no part in this," Chekov replied resolutely. "And Kahsheel is dead."

"What about Mras and Johnson?"

Chekov shrugged. "There's nothing to tell."

"We'll see." Gebain motioned to one of the men behind him.

"Wait! I'll talk!" Chekov said quickly, before they could carry out whatever the major domo had in mind.

The Kibree nodded. "Good."

"But only in front of the Station Manager and the Station Director," the ensign stipulated firmly. "And only if Mister Sulu is present."

The big Kibree sighed and shook his head. "After all the time I've devoted to you, you still have no idea of your place, do you, Chekov? You have no idea how things work at this station and how little control you have over them. You will be speaking in front of those people. I am sure you will be speaking to all of them… eventually. But first…" Gebain gestured to his assistants. "You're going to have a long serious talk with me."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparations are made for a very eventful Kepir Hunt meal...

"Aeyo, take watch!" one of the slaves warned, then giggled as Davies blindly collided with a wall. Her captors seemed to be playing a kind of game with her. Rather than conducting her straightforwardly to wherever they intended to incarcerate her, a larger than necessary number of hands pushed her along. Unseen strangers laughed as she stumbled sightlessly or headed her off when she went the wrong way. Occasionally there were gasps of tension and relief as she avoided some obstacle she wasn't even aware of. With her hands still tied behind her and the sack placed back over her head, she couldn't resist effectively. If she attempted to stop her uneven progress, she was shoved. Davies began to have the feeling this piece of skylarking might be a prelude to something worse.

"Take leave of her, you slags!" The dwarf's voice boomed in the underground chamber. "Has too much peeva pickled your brains? These be firebricks, maggot heads!" 

Davies felt a muscular hand on her arm, pulling her like a dumb animal through a space that suddenly seemed empty of people. She fought to control the trembling in her limbs, not wanting whoever had hold of her to know how badly frightened she was. It sounded as if the person leading her was walking with a stick. Eventually she tripped over something soft and tumbled onto a heap of sacks that gave under her weight, crackling and rustling. The hand slid up to her neck. 

"You scared, Day-Veez?" 

"I wasn't…" Davies cleared her throat and started again, calmly this time. "I wasn't sure what they were going to do to me…" 

"Make fun with you, like kiani." Even if she hadn't already recognized his voice, Davies knew she would have been able to identify Mras from the rancid smell of his breath. "As the kiani liked to play with the lookly Feddie… What name did he take calling?" 

"Chekov," Davies replied shortly. Now that she didn't have to concentrate on keeping her footing, troublesome questions flooded her mind. Who had been the man she'd been confined with? Mras had just referred to Chekov in the past tense. But she could have sworn… the person in the cell with her had certainly sounded like Chekov. As little faith as she had in Johnson, she had to accept that officers didn't become qualified paramedics if they couldn't use a tricorder to tell the difference between live and dead humans. It was far more likely that Johnson had been correct. The substitution of an impostor was an attempt to confuse her, frighten her or loosen her tongue. She couldn't imagine what end the slaves could have in mind for such tactics. Presumably she hadn't been meant to see her fellow prisoner at all. As for his knowledge of her history with Chekov, the slave culture seemed to live on gossip and its exploitation — and this was leaving aside Chekov's tendency to talk too much even when he was sober. Presumably at some point the ensign had told someone among the servants about her behavior… And his relationship with Sulu was obviously a favorite subject for speculation.

"Not so much fun on the other side, is it, girl-Feddie?" Mras said unsympathetically. 

"I never…" 

"…Never took wanting to play mistress to a certain slave boy?" the dwarf finished for her. 

Davies swallowed. These slaves seemed to know everything. "I didn't mean that… I wouldn't do anything to hurt Chekov. It was just a… a joke." 

"Like the joke those slags were making with you?" Mras asked pointedly. "Good joking it was, but I didn't take sight of you laughing, Day-Veez." 

Davies was very glad the dwarf couldn't see her face. "Okay, I take your point. It wasn't funny. None of this is funny. Please let me go, Mras. I won't tell anyone what you're doing down here. I'm not allowed to. Did Chekov ever tell you about that? About the way we're not allowed to get involved with internal affairs… I mean, we're not allowed to mix in Kibrian business?" 

The dwarf grunted. "The Prime Feddie Cowardice Law?" 

Well, Davies reflected, that was one way of looking at it. "For the same reason I'm not allowed to help you, I won't say anything that could hurt you. Do you understand?" 

"I take understanding of no help," the dwarf replied belligerently. 

"I'd like to be able to help you, Mras. I'd really like to be able to do something about this whole miserable situation. This is so unjust." 

"You'd like to help us?" The dwarf managed to sound at once cynical and hopeful, like a child who still wanted the presents although he was too old for Father Christmas. 

"I can't. Well, I can't do anything but let the kiani know that we do things a different way and that everyone's much happier when everyone's free." 

"Day-Veez." He took hold of her arm again. "I will let you go. I will let you go and give warning to the kibbie-eyed one, and the one with milk skin and water eyes. And you must make no speech to any others about what we slags do here, huh?" 

"Okay. I've already said I…" 

"And you must take property of me." 

"What?" Davies hoped her translator was malfunctioning. 

"You must take me as your slag, Day-Veez," the dwarf repeated firmly. 

"I… I… I can't do that," Davies spluttered, horrified. "Why would you want me to do that?" 

"Because Gebain will kill me." 

"Well, I understand that, but I don't see how I could do anything to stop him even if I were to… to own you. As I understand it, if you commit a crime, you have to pay for it. Lieutenant Sulu wasn't even able to keep Chekov from being…" 

"No, no, no," the dwarf interrupted, then muttered, "Stupid girl-Feddie." 

"What?" Davies decided that although she disapproved strongly of the Kibrian system of slavery, she preferred the manners the slaves displayed in the station. 

"I will stay hidden here until your ship comes," the dwarf explained. "Your ship that comes to take you to your sky-palace. Then you take me with you." 

"Mras…" 

"I will be your slave always," he continued coaxingly, rubbing her arm. "I will fetch things before you take knowing you want them. I will watch in the kitchens to make sure you have the best food. I'll bring the sweetest flowers to your bedchambers…" 

"Mras…" Davies felt this was uncomfortably close to a proposal of a different sort. "We don't have slaves. We just don't. And my captain, the director of my ship…" 

"I take knowledge of what a captain is." 

"Well, anyway, he wouldn't let me take you aboard. We have very strict rules about that sort of thing. People belong on their own worlds…" 

"Belong!" the little man howled, startling her. "I don't belong anywhere. I belong to no one. No one takes property of Mras. When you leave me here, girl-Feddie, I will die and my body will be thrown out to the scavengers. No one will carry it away and care for it." 

"Mras," she said, in what she hoped was a comforting tone. "I know it isn't fair. I know how horrible this is, but I can't do anything. Not for you, not for anyone else. I'm sorry." 

"No, Day-Veez, you're not sorry." The dwarf's voice was low and deadly. "Not yet." 

She tried to pull away from him, but the bag obscuring her vision and the rope binding her hands were too much of a handicap. He pushed her backwards into the sacks and sat on her knees. She struggled as he began to tie her ankles together. When she tried to sit up, he hit her in the stomach with his elbow and called her something long and unprintable in a language that sounded much more like Russian than Kibrian. The translator relayed his message faithfully. The epithet had obviously been originally directed at a man. Under other circumstances, she might have been amused by this evidence of cultural cross-fertilization. 

"You'll be sorry, Day-Veez," Mras promised grimly as he tightened the knots around her ankles. "You'll be sorry when all the other Feddies are dead. I will tell your captain that you made sport with Chekov. I will tell the kibbie-eyed one before he dies that you wanted the lookly Feddie for yourself. I will tell everyone what a worthless uzhist you are — after they've paid me my reward for saving you from the fire. You will be disgraced. You will have to take poison and die like the curly red one." 

How, Davies thought as she gritted her teeth and tried to pull free, could you change a society when even its victims couldn't conceive of a different way of doing things? 

"You will be truly sorry then, Day-Veez," the dwarf repeated confidently as he rolled off of her. 

"There won't be any reward, Mras!" Davies countered — then stopped herself dead. There was no guarantee what the dwarf and his cohorts would do to her if their ransom plan was aborted. Too late now, she decided, the cat was already out of the bag. "I can't help you, or be used to help you, but you can help yourself." 

"That's what I'm doing, stupid girl-Feddie," Mras replied as he pushed her over onto her side and checked the ropes around her wrists. "Giving help to myself." 

"If…" Davies stopped and took a breath. It was hard to sound composed and reasonable when one was being treated like a sack of potatoes. "I don't know if this is the case, but if someone among the kiani is helping you to do this, because they want to injure or kill us — those of us from the Federation, I mean then I suggest you come with me to the Director and tell her who it is." 

The dwarf made a derisive noise through his nose as he wrapped an additional set of ropes around her wrists. "Of what use is that?" 

"If the station is destroyed, and any more of us are killed, it's likely that the Federation will abandon this project. That means that there'll be less pressure on Kibria to change, no example of another way to do things. I'm not saying that you'll get instant results, but you'll get something." 

The dwarf made a noise like a laugh and let his hand travel down her thigh. "Maybe you'll get something, Day-Veez…" 

She rolled away from him. "What's going to happen after you've blown up the station? Do you have somewhere to go and hide for the rest of your life? Has the kiani who's paying you to do this offered to protect you?" When he didn't answer, she pressed, "Can you trust this person? Will a kiani keep a promise to a slave?" 

"The kiani are all of one piece," he replied harshly. "All worthless. They offer jewels and then there are none. They offer protection, but their backs are turned when Gebain is at work. They take no knowledge of Gebain's ways. The lookly Feddie learned that, didn't he, Day-Veez?" 

Davies swallowed, knowing the conversation was once more heading out of her control. "Well…" 

"The Feddies are as the kiani," he accused, shoving her contemptuously with one foot. "The kibbie-eyed one gave no protection to his own favorite against Gebain. You made humor of scanning him your bedslag. You are no more than a filthy, maggot-hearted kiani, Day-Veez. You'll give me no protection." 

"Mras…" 

"When station burns, I will burn," the dwarf decided bitterly. "No more lying. No more beating. No more…" His words choked off into silence. 

"Mras," Davies said, wishing she could see his face. "You can die anytime. You can only come with me to the Director and put a stop to this now. I'll do everything I can to protect you. I'll… I'll take property of you, if you think that's the only way. And if that happens, I promise Gebain will have to fight me to get near you. Please… If I can't make it any better for you now, we can at least keep the doors open for the future. The Federation will gradually make things better. Please." She waited for some reaction to her proposal, either from the dwarf or his followers. Making an impassioned plea from inside a dirty sack didn't, she knew, lend much weight to her arguments. 

"You Feddies love to talk." It sounded like the dwarf was getting up to leave. 

"Wait, wait!" she said desperately. "If you don't trust me, then so be it, but at least tell me what's going on. Tell me which kiani is behind the plot to blow up the station. I'll… I'll pay you for the information." 

The dwarf stopped. "You have jewels, Day-Veez?" 

"In my quarters. You're welcome to them if you can get in to get them." 

"Where?" 

"In my wash bag… By the basin in the bathroom. Do you know where I mean?" 

"Yes." The dwarf hobbled away from her. "Nith!" he yelled. Immediately, footsteps echoed down the passageway towards them. "Take the girl-Feddie to the place where the morts bed down," Mras ordered the silent newcomer. "See that no one touches her, even those grease-fingered morts. But if I have not given summons for her when the hour comes, have them take her to the safe place." 

"Immediately, Brother Mras," the newcomer, Nith — a man with a deep, cultivated sounding voice — replied. 

"Mras!" Davies protested as Nith's large hands closed around her waist. "What about our bargain?" The dwarf laughed derisively. "Stupid girl-Feddie. You made speech of the hiding place of your jewels too soon. Now I take them and I don't have to tell you." 

"Mras!" The newcomer paused in his assigned task. "Brother, if we do not shun the degenerate ways of the kiani, we become no better than they are." 

The dwarf laughed again, no more kindly. "Nith one time was kiani," he explained to Davies, "and thought himself above slags. When they cast him out, he became a slag who takes to thinking himself better than kiani." 

"Are you any better than the kiani, Mras?" Davies asked acidly. "Or is it all right for you to lie to me, to play jokes on me? Treat me like the kianis did Chekov?" 

There was silence for a moment then an irritated snort. "What use have you for this knowledge, Day-Veez?" 

"I want to know," Davies replied stubbornly, although it did seem a little crazy to offer to pay so much for information she wouldn't be able to use until it was much too late. The dwarf fell silent again. In Davies' imagination he was squirming guiltily under the accusing eyes of the upright Nith — to whom she had taken an immediate liking. 

"If the kibbie-eyed one learns the kiani plan to blame him for the trouble," Mras began slowly, "or maybe to kill him, will he take no action and suffer — as he did with the lookly Feddie — or will he take action?" 

"It's not as easy as that," Davies replied, equally hesitant. "We still have to respect Kibrian rights and customs. That's why Sulu didn't make as much fuss about Chekov as he would have liked to, but… well, yes, if we're under attack we can defend ourselves. I suppose that includes indirect attacks and actions against us specifically that would harm other people." 

"So, if the kibbie-eyed one learns of our plans here, he will take action against us?" 

"I honestly don't know what he'll do," Davies admitted reluctantly. "Mras, if you hate the kiani so much, why are you collaborating with them? Why help them?" 

The dwarf chuckled. "I don't help them, Day-Veez. They offer me an easy life — another promise not to be kept. They give firebricks and jewels to wreck this station, kill the Feddies and frighten other Feddies away — but that too is a promise not to be kept. The kiani are frighted to come to the tunnels and see what I do with their bricks and waiters." 

"You're not supposed to kill the kiani then…" 

"Slags.They want me to make dead slags and Feddies. They say to be making friends with the Feddies. Get a Feddie in the tunnels so when the stations falls it will look that the Feddies helped the servants rise up." He snorted. "They didn't reckon on so many wanting to make friends with the Feddies. And they made no thought that a slag might have plans of his own." 

"So," Davies said, as coolly as she could. "The Federation would have withdrawn because its personnel weren't safe, the pro-Federation party would have thought again about our guarantee of non-interference and the extreme isolationists would have benefited from a favorable backlash of outrage when the Selrideen Station was wrecked. And exactly what are you planning to do instead, Mras?" 

"Make dead kiani," he replied simply. Assuring herself that she had the green light, Davies pressed, "Who provided weapons for you? Which of the kiani?" Silence. "Mras, I offered you jewels if you would give me a name. That was our bargain." 

"Girl-Feddie, you take no knowledge of this kiani," Mras protested, sounding annoyed. 

"I'm paying for a name, Mras." 

"Albrikk," he admitted at last. "The kiani's name is Albrikk." 

Davies frowned. She had several personal favorites to fill the chief villain's spot, but this name hadn't even been on the scorecard. "Who is Albrikk?" 

"You made bargain for a name, Day-Veez," the dwarf reminded her. "Take her, Nith." 

"Wait! Wait!" she protested as the estimable Nith lifted her up and placed her over his shoulder. 

"Take ease, lookly little girl-Feddie." Mras reached up and ran a lingering hand down her calf. "Whatever comes to pass, I will take sight of you and see you safe."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

'Well', Johnson thought, as he continued to languish in the company of two remarkably boring Kibrian guards. 'So, the Medical Officer has some sort of plan…' That at least was evident. The only trouble was that it could be a plan to go out and buy up additional life insurance on key members of the station staff for all Johnson knew. He didn't think that Starfleet was going to be particularly impressed that one meteorologist had managed to scuttle off to a safe hiding place while the rest of the team were blown to bits. In fact, it might be advantageous just to sit tight here to avoid being the one who would inherit the unenviable task of explaining to Captain Kirk what had happened. If only they were in touch with the _Enterprise_ , he could at least ask for advice… The thought of communications made a tiny light go on inside Johnson's brain. The Kibree, he knew, were at the awkward, in between stage of reaching for the stars. Their technology was sufficient to receive the babble of subspace communication around them, but they were as yet unable to respond. The communicators that the party had brought with them were useless once the _Enterprise_ was outside the immediate system. However the Alareen Relay Station was the site of the most advanced Kibrian research into developing their own subspace broadcast capability. Once there, it was a virtual certainty that Johnson could call for help. He felt a tremor of disquiet at the thought of taking such a step without Sulu's permission. Johnson steadied himself, knowing that he had to accept that Sulu might be held prisoner — or worse, dead. It wasn't unlikely that Davies was in the same position, and Chekov would surely have been back by now if he hadn't got into some sort of trouble. If the ship were here, it would be able to pick its people out using the transporter wherever they were — alive or dead. Of course, he reflected, if he called for help now, they'd be back too late to thwart Mras' immediate plans, but at least any survivors would be rescued. Perhaps Federation assistance in the aftermath of the attack would help to minimize any political damage created by the outrage. Seeing that the alternative was to expire here at first moonset, helpless to save himself or any of his colleagues, Johnson didn't see how he could be blamed for doing what he could to survive. A few moments later, his resolve was put to the test. A tall, ginger-cookie colored Kibree came in with a letter and his translator. Unfortunately, someone seemed to have been playing with the settings on the translator, so Johnson didn't realize he was being released until one of the guards unlocked the restraints around his wrists.

"Mister Johnson," the ginger Kibrian said, "ymrsisltsinsig…" 

Smiling politely, Johnson took the translator from the Kibrian and readjusted it. "Could you say that again, please?" 

"Mister Johnson, will you come with me?" As if he were still unsure that the translator was working, the Kibrian got up and gestured elaborately to the door. As much as he wanted to go through that door, Johnson forced himself to remain seated. 

"First, I need to know where I am going and why." 

"I am taking you to the Alareen Station, to assist our technicians with some computational problems in their subspace focusing." 

'Yes!' Johnson cheered silently, his face immobile. The Medical Officer had had the same thoughts he had. He rose and followed the Kibrian into the corridor. "And, uhm, what time is it?" he asked, trying to sound casual. 

"An hour before first moonset. We'll probably miss the traditional feast of the kepir… A great pity. It's a very old custom. I'm surprised that Madame Director feels this is so urgent that you need go now. Apparently none of the technicians are currently on duty. See…" The Kibrian held up the local equivalent of a key ring, a metal sphere from which master keys protruded like the spikes on a medieval mace. "Apparently I have to unlock the place for you." 

The corridors of the Station were quite deserted as Johnson followed the stranger out into the grand front courtyard. The Kibrian ushered him into a small surface vehicle. "Where is everyone?" Johnson asked, belting himself into the slightly overlarge seat beside his guide, who was apparently also to be his driver. 

"Preparing the kepir feast," the Kibrian replied. "You do know about our little custom of role reversal for the evening meal?" 

"Yes, I've read about it," Johnson answered as the driver eased the vehicle into one of the sparsely used driving routes that ran in deep cuttings through the Kibrian city. They were spanned by high, arched bridges for foot traffic and helped to maintain the pre-technical atmosphere of the place. 

"I think it's a charming custom… and it does so amuse the servants." His guide smiled and reached into a pocket. "Here, Mister Johnson. Have you tasted kepir?" Johnson accepted a nut from the Kibree rather like a child taking candy from someone who didn't quite qualify as a stranger. 

"I've heard it has — side effects." 

The driver laughed. "I'm not trying to seduce you, Mister Johnson." 

He colored. "I was told kepir was a potent aphrodisiac." 

The Kibrian shrugged. "Kepir's potency depends on whether you depend on your intellect or your instincts to control your behavior." 

"But the slaves…" 

"Exactly. The slaves are of inferior intellect and have little control of their behavior even under the best of circumstances. Kepir only emphasizes the beasts they are," his host replied with the matter of fact prejudice typical of his caste. 

Johnson frowned, thinking about the sorts of things Chekov appeared to have done under the influence of kepir. 

"And of course many of our servants take peeva," the Kibrian admitted grudgingly. "I'm told that particular combination of substances does have some significance pharmaceutically… I tend to think it's lack of character that sends them into rut. As for the effect of kepir on kiani… Well, it does make it easier for one to be a little more uninhibited, but I can honestly say I've never done anything that I didn't truly want to under the influence of kepir." 

Johnson rubbed the kernel of the nut between his fingers so that he could smell the oil. It had a warm, almost peppery odor. 

"The oil of the kepir is very sweet," his hose continued pleasantly, "and very wholesome. Many Kibree use it as a beauty aid or a body rub." Johnson wondered how much effect the kepir had really had on Chekov. Had the ensign just used it as an excuse to wind up in Sulu's bed? "Go on, Mister Johnson. Have a taste. You're in no danger of winding up in a passionate embrace with me…" The Kibrian glanced over at the kepir kernel in the meteorologist's left hand and smiled. "That is, unless you'd like to be in danger..?" The meteorologist found himself coloring again as he tucked the kepir into a compartment in his belt. "No, thank you. I think I'll just save it for later."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"Is there anything further you'd like to say to me now?"

Chekov made a zoologically improbable but grammatically correct suggestion in Kibrian. Gebain, who was less the student of language and culture than Angharad Davies, nonetheless smiled before nodding a signal to his assistant to give the ensign another stroke of the lash. 

"You're learning our language very well, Chekov." 

Chekov wasn't completely sure what it was they were using on him. This particular instrument of torture could double as a kitchen implement for all he knew. It was relatively thin and lightweight. It was also as flexible as rope. The most important quality by far, however, was that it hurt like hell when violently applied to bare skin — and quite a lot of that had been going on for quite a while now. "Thank you," he said, trying to shift his weight off his arms. This was growing more difficult since Gebain's assistants had readjusted the ropes tying him to the beam. The tension was now such that he could no longer stand with his heels on the floor. Each blow tended to knock him off balance. It was also getting rather hard to breath properly. "…For the compliment, that is." 

Gebain waited. Chekov squeezed his eyes closed and willed himself not to do it this time. However, when he opened them, they wandered as if by their own volition to the three pieces of peeva lying on a shelf to Gebain's left. After Gebain's men had torn the ragged tunic the ensign was wearing, it was only a matter of time until the entire thing fell apart. The three precious lumps had escaped the pocket where he'd stored them and rolled to the floor. 

"You want some, don't you?" Gebain asked tantalizingly. "I imagine you're beginning to want some peeva very badly." 

Chekov said nothing and glanced instead at the Kibree standing at his right. This man's sole duty was to hold a cup of water and to douse the ensign with it when it looked like there was a chance he was about to pass out. It was beginning to feel like time for an encore of this sycophant's role in the drama. The major domo wheeled himself over to the shelf and took one piece down. Chekov bit his lip as the Kibree broke the peeva in half then broke the half in half again. 

"I'll let you have this much," he said, holding the segment up, "if you'll tell me about Mras." 

Chekov tried to look elsewhere, to think of anything else… but after a moment, his eyes were drawn back to the peeva. 

"This could get you through the rest of this interrogation." Gebain sniffed the peeva delicately as if sampling the bouquet of a fine wine. "Although your answers wouldn't be as useful to me. I couldn't be sure if you were telling the truth or just saying what I wanted to hear. But I might be willing to deal with that if you give me Mras." 

Chekov closed his mouth very tightly. He was no longer sure if he was refusing to cooperate out of obedience to the Non Interference Directive or just from the desire to defy Gebain. Either way, he'd decided he'd be damned before he gave anyone to the major domo. 

"It was Mras that gave you this peeva, wasn't it?" 

The ensign shrugged as best he was able. "I don't see what difference that makes." He gasped as Gebain's assistant delivered a stinging blow to the lower section of his back. 

"I don't see why you're protecting him," Gebain retaliated, putting the peeva aside and rolling forward. "That deformed imbecile would betray you in a minute… and has upon several occasions. The only motivation that I can see is that you're in league with him." Chekov closed his eyes again. He recognized this as the beginning of an unpleasant pattern. First, Gebain would roll toward him, becoming increasingly agitated. "You are in league with him, aren't you? You're not at all displeased to see me in this chair, are you, slave?" The major domo drew the word out cruelly. "Except that you'd much rather see me lying dead, wouldn't you?" He paused and rolled closer. "Why else would you have assumed I'd been killed when I found you outside Kahsheel's quarters? You were in the tunnels with him, weren't you, Chekov? Before you went to poison Kahsheel… And don't think I don't know you murdered her…" The Kibree's voice went down to an acidic hiss. "Did you have sex with her before you killed her, maggot? Or did you wait and take pleasure from her corpse?" 

Chekov squeezed his eyes shut. Despite his best efforts to ignore them, accusations like the last two stung almost as much as the lash. 

Gebain rolled forward and grabbed the ensign by the throat. "You'd better tell me," he thundered. "You'd better tell me where he is, you murdering little maggot! Tell me where I can find Mras before I kill you with my bare hands!" 

Chekov gritted his teeth and shook his head. As expected, Gebain didn't choke him to death. Instead, the major domo let go and rolled his chair backward. Chekov held his breath, his skin anticipating the blows to come. Sometimes there were as many as five. This time there were only three. Hard. In quick succession. Across the shoulders. The ensign couldn't tell if Gebain's assistant had bad aim or was just randomly varying the location he struck to keep the torture from getting boring. The ensign was still trying not to cry out, particularly from the blows he had warning were coming, but he wasn't having nearly as much success as he had at first. He found he couldn't do anything at all about the ragged sobbing noise his breathing made afterwards. 

"Not so sharply, Ijzo," Gebain admonished his assistant, restored again to calm. "We're interrogating him. Not punishing. Not yet. We have to prolong this until we get results." In the interests of prolonging things, Gebain's other assistant dashed half his supply of water in the ensign's face. "You do realize that, don't you, Mister Chekov?" Gebain asked the last part mockingly in Standard. "This isn't your punishment. That's still to come." 

Chekov shook himself, sending droplets of water everywhere. The tricky thing was to remember not to answer in Standard. That was a highly — and immediately — punishable offence. 

Gebain picked up the peeva. "You know what happened to you the last time you were caught taking this. Multiply the punishment by the amount." 

Chekov caught one of the rivulets of water running down his cheek on his tongue. The dehydration stage was well under way. That was a good sign. The tremors and delirium of peeva withdrawal couldn't be far behind. He couldn't be interrogated in that state… Or he wouldn't care so much, at least. 

"And then there's the matter of your disguise… You do know what the punishment is for slaves who attempt to hide their brands and pass for free people, don't you?" The ensign shook his head as he straightened to relieve the weight on his arms and regain his footing. 

The major domo smiled. "Castration." 

"Well…" Chekov drew in a deep breath that was relatively even. "I'm not surprised." 

"Because of the elegant way the punishment fits the crime?" 

"No, because it's somewhat worse than anything I could possibly have anticipated." 

Gebain almost laughed. "At last, you're beginning to understand what life is for a slave on Kibria. What you don't yet understand is that as guilty as you are, allowances can be made — if you cooperate. For instance, tell me about your friend Johnson. he helped you with your resurrection, didn't he? Helped you disguise yourself, correct?" 

Chekov found himself staring at the broken piece of peeva. 

"Your portion of the punishment is lessened if the blame for this is shared," Gebain promised. "I know you're not in this alone. Johnson helped you, didn't he? He was too close at hand when I caught you outside Kahsheel's quarters…" 

"I must speak with Lieutenant Sulu," Chekov said, slowly and as clearly as he could. "This is an illegal proceeding. You must notify Mister Sulu…" 

The door to the kitchens opened. "That would be impossible. Lieutenant Sulu is dead," a new voice announced. 

Gebain gaped at the newcomer. "Madame Director..!" Chekov twisted to get a better view as the tall, orange-skinned Kibrian strode into the room flanked by two low castes. 

"Madame Director," Gebain began apologetically, "my men found this person…" 

Chekov straightened as the director crossed to a position directly in front of him. 

"I know who this is, Gebain," she said, looking unsmilingly into the ensign's eyes. 

"Yes, ma'am. I was preparing to notify you…" 

"Where's Lieutenant Sulu?" Chekov demanded. 

"He's dead," the director repeated without emotion. "Which means that you are without a master and are therefore remanded to the custody of this Station. As is my prerogative as the highest official of the Station, I have decided to add you to my household… at least temporarily." 

Chekov was too stunned to say anything for a moment. "You can't do that. I'm not…" 

"Director," Gebain broke in over him. "This person has been involved in criminal activities. He should be taken to Security…" 

The director turned on him coldly. "Are you suggesting that I am violating legal procedures, Gebain? Especially considering that, unlike you, I am legally within my rights as Station Director to detain and question persons suspected of crimes before turning them over to Security?" 

"No, ma'am," Gebain said meekly. 

"But you can't…" Chekov began, trying to come up with something they'd listen to. "I can't be… What proof do you have that Lieutenant Sulu is dead?" 

The director crossed to the shelf where Gebain had laid the pieces of peeva. "Were these found on him?" she asked, picking them up. 

"Yes, ma'am." 

She put the unbroken pieces in her pocket. 

"I don't believe you," Chekov said, as she turned towards him. "I don't believe Lieutenant Sulu is dead." 

She gave him a long speculative look, then weighed out a large portion of the broken piece of peeva in her hand. "What you do or do not believe is of no consequence," she informed him as she moved toward him. "Open your mouth." 

Chekov didn't trust himself to answer. However, he took some consolation in the fact that as weak as he was, he still was able to put up some resistance as the Kibrians' assistants held him in place and pried his jaws open. The director handed the dose of peeva to an underling. Chekov closed his eyes as he saw it coming to his mouth. They held his mouth and nose so he couldn't spit it back out again… but they might have saved themselves the trouble. 

"Madame Director," Gebain began humbly. 

"Next time, see to it that I am informed more promptly when a situation like this occurs," she told him as the world blurred into soft focus for Chekov. 

"Yes, ma'am. Of course. Do you wish me to find a replacement for your part in this evening's meal?" 

"No," she said, motioning her men away from Chekov. "That won't be necessary. I don't think this one is going to give me any more trouble, are you?" 

Chekov cleared away some of the pastel fog suddenly clouding his brain by shaking his head. 'Too much,' he thought dimly. 'Too big a dose. Judgement severely impaired…' 

"Are you?" the director repeated, lifting his chin up. The ensign wanted to look her in the eye, but found he couldn't. Everything was suddenly too bright, too complicated. "Come now," she said, giving his spinning head a shake. "I know you've been instructed on how to behave properly by Mister Gebain. You're going to be putting that instruction into practice now, aren't you?" 

Chekov knew there was something he wanted to say to her. His mouth worked for a moment without any words coming out. "Yes, ma'am," she prompted. When she let his chin go, his head dropped and his eyes lowered comfortably to the level of her shoes. 

"Yes, ma'am," he whispered obediently.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Sulu paused by Davies' door. Someone was inside and he had the strong feeling it wasn't Davies. He touched the lock and let the door swing open silently. The bathroom door was ajar. Someone was in there moving things. Someone that didn't sound like Davies. Sulu could hear the clink of ceramic. He padded silently across the outer chamber, then paused outside the bathroom door until he could roughly pinpoint the intruder's location. Taking a deep breath, he stepped in and lunged. The only problem was that the intruder was much smaller than he'd envisioned. Mras slipped under his arms and turned to confront him. A knife gleamed in the dwarf's hand.

"What are you doing here?" Sulu demanded, ignoring the threat of the weapon. 

"What do you think I do here, Feddie?" the dwarf snarled. The little man didn't look too well. His coloring was off and he held one arm tightly against his side as if he was either hiding something or in terrible pain. Maybe both. 

"Where's Davies?" Sulu picked himself up. "Did she send you here for something?" 

The dwarf's face twisted into a grin. "You want Day-Veez, Kibbie-eye?" 

Sulu took a step forward. "Where is she?" 

The little Kibree backed up warily. He then seemed to take a moment to evaluate his situation. Seeing that Sulu wasn't intimidated by his knife, he made a great show of leaning back against a wall and using it to pick his teeth. "You without a bedslag now, Feddie?" he asked slyly. 

"Look," Sulu said, leveling a warning finger at him. "If you know anything about Davies…" 

"Oh, I take knowledge of Day-Veez," Mras assured him with a grin. "A right lookly little mort. Dwarfish for a Kibbie, but I take no minding of that…" The dwarf's leering manner made Sulu's blood run cold. It indicated that not only Davies, but all of the station dwellers were probably in serious trouble. Under normal circumstances, a person of Mras' caste could be flayed alive for speaking about someone of higher caste in such a tone. The little man had to be confident that a disruption of social norms was imminent to take such a chance. "With a ready tongue, also," the dwarf continued. "Take care, Kibbie-eye, or she'll scan you her bedslag, just as she did with the lookly Feddie…" 

"Chekov?" The name was past his lips before the lieutenant could stop himself. 

"She'll have you at her feet in gold chains like she had Kahsheel do with that one." 

Bedslag. Gold chains. Sulu knew the dwarf was probably just saying these things to get a rise out of him. Unfortunately it was working. "I'm really surprised to see you here, Mras," he said, folding his arms and trying to bring his emotions back under control — visibly at least. "I was under the impression that you were in a great deal of trouble. Perhaps I should call Gebain's men to see if they…" 

"You want Day-Veez, Feddie?" the dwarf asked, stepping between the lieutenant and what the little man had obviously forgotten was a temporarily non-functional communications panel. 

"Do you have her?" Mras nodded. "What do you want?" 

The Kibree surveyed the contents of Davies' room, then snorted contemptuously. "Nothing." 

"I don't understand." 

"You will," Mras assured him, crossing to Davies' bed. "I will give Day-Veez back to you when Station burns. She says you may not give aid or hindrance to the slags' plan — unless they make threats to make you dead. The kiani who gave the slags tools to make the Station burn wish you should take blame for this trouble. They wish that you Feddies will be sent away forever. I take no mind of what befalls Feddies. I only wish to take sight of Station burning at my feet. When I take sight of that, you will have your Day-Veez back — not before. If Station doesn't burn, you'll never take sight of the mort again." 

Sulu stared blankly at the little Kibree, who in turn kept his rheumy eyes fixed on the lieutenant. "Let me get this straight," Sulu said slowly. "You intend to destroy this station, killing as many of the kiani as you can. And if I do nothing to interfere with this, you'll release Davies to me safely?" 

"Yes." The dwarf's little eyes glittered with contempt. "Stand back and do nothing, Kibbie-eye — as your Feddie law tells you to." 

Sulu shook his head. "I'm not sure I can do that." 

Mras snorted. "You're right slidely at it. Let Station burn as you let them beat…" 

"Leave Chekov out of this," Sulu ordered, a little more passionately than he intended. 

The dwarf's lip was curled into a sneer. "I take no knowledge of why he had such fear of you." 

"He wasn't afraid…" Suddenly there was a sound that made both of them freeze. From outside came the distinctive 'beep, beep, beep' of someone attempting to manually override the door's lock. Mras dove under the bed with surprising agility while Sulu quickly moved to the little combination safe behind Davies' workstation where her phaser should be. A panel slid back to reveal an empty compartment. 

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but we had to remove all offensive weapons from your team's quarters." 

Sulu knew even before he turned that these cultured tones could only belong to the Station Manager. 

Datvin calmly folded his hands behind his back as four armed guards swarmed in past him. "For security reasons." 

Sulu sighed and let his hands drop to his sides as the Station Manager's men began a methodical search of the quarters. The lieutenant had known that something like this was likely to happen when he'd decided to make his way back to his team' quarters. Slapping his hand onto one electronic lock after another was almost equivalent to sticking a white tail on his backside and yelling to the dogs to come after him. However he had to ascertain his people's whereabouts. There had been no sign in either Johnson's or Sulu's own quarters that the ensigns had been dragged away against their wills. In the meteorologist's room he'd found the medical kit and Johnson's kit bag — both intact — neatly packed and propped next to the door as if in preparation for a hasty exodus. Sulu wasn't sure whether he was relieved or distressed not to find Chekov's body laid out there. Sooner or later he knew he'd discover what had been done with it. Despite the way it made Sulu feel, he knew that the final disposition of his friend's remains wasn't exactly a pressing issue in these circumstances. 

The lieutenant held his breath as one of Datvin's men knelt down to search under Davies' bed. There was no telling what the dwarf would say or do when taken into custody. However, after a moment the guard moved away, giving no sign he'd seen anyone. Sulu tried to prevent any evidence of his surprise from showing on his face. Where could the dwarf have gone to? Was there a trap door hidden under that piece of furniture or a way of hiding inside the bed's under structure? Maybe that guard was a confederate of the little Kibree… 

"Hmm." Datvin frowned as his men came up empty-handed. "I could have sworn you weren't alone, Lieutenant." 

"Sometimes I like to talk to myself," Sulu replied easily as one of the guards patted him down. "Sometimes it helps me sort things out when I can't quite figure out what's going on… Like now, for instance. Am I under arrest, Datvin?" 

"I wouldn't say that." The Station Manager made a slow circuit of the room, his eyes scanning for clues his underlings had missed. 

"Protective custody?" Sulu guessed, as two of the guards took up positions flanking him. 

"Let us say…" Datvin cautiously lifted the corner of the bedcover with his toe. "…that I need to discuss certain irregularities with you." 

"Irregularities?" Sulu crossed his arms. "Such as my team's weapons being confiscated and my being placed under arrest?" 

"Irregularities of that magnitude." Datvin let the coverlet fall back into place. "Yes… Natza, your uniform." Sulu felt his mouth go dry as the smallest of the four guards unhesitatingly began to unbutton his clothing. 

"Wait a minute…" the lieutenant demanded, trying to keep a superior tone to his voice. "What's going on here? What do you think you're going to do to me, Datvin?" 

"I think, Lieutenant," the Kibree replied, taking the guard's jacket and handing it to Sulu, "that I'm going to take you to dinner."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"Come on." When the alien hesitated at the threshold of the Station Director's living chamber, her chief housekeeper gave him a little push. "I can't say as I like having this little demon in your quarters, Director," the low caste complained, finally taking him by the arm and guiding him to a position in front of her employer.

"Is he giving you trouble, Modvag?" the Director asked, pointing to the low cushion where she wished her new acquisition to be placed. He was in a much more presentable condition than when she'd last seen him — washed and dressed in a fresh livery bearing her mark. Her staff had even managed to even out his unsightly haircut. Still, the Federation officer made into a less than attractive Kibrian. He seemed even more undersized than she'd remembered him. 

"No, he's too far gone with the drug for that. Sit down." Despite her assurance, the housekeeper had to repeat her order and accompany it with a guiding hand on the creature's shoulder. "Sit down." 

He moved stiffly and uncertainly — evidence perhaps of the punishment Gebain had inflicted on him or the bandages her underlings had put on his wounds. "I don't feel easy near the thing," Modvag said, frowning at her charge, "knowing of the glamour it cast on poor Engineer Kahsheel, causing her to take such leave of her wits and seeing the way it has risen from the dead and taken the form of a Kibree." 

"Your superstitiousness only serves to remind me of the small remove between one of your caste and a servant, Modvag," the Director said coolly as she set the papers she'd been reading on the sofa beside her. "This young person may be from another planet, but he is quite mortal and, in this condition, quite harmless." 

"Yes, Director… Stop that." The low caste reached down and slapped one of the alien's hands. "Sit still." They had placed a half-glove over the creature's right hand with the Director's insignia on it, as was the custom when there was a delay between the claiming and branding of a slave. His fingers had been worrying about the edges of the glove. 

"Observe the beast in what should be its natural condition." The Director nodded with satisfaction as the alien obediently put his palms flat against his thighs. "Silent and compliant. I never particularly cared for this one. Always too ready to speak or act." 

"Director, what should I do about Bolse?" 

"Bolse?" 

"The low caste who snuck away from the kitchen to inform us that Gebain had captured the thing… I mean, this one… He has asked to be transferred to your household." 

"Do so, but watch him carefully. At the first sign of further treachery in his nature send him back to the kitchens, where I'm sure Mister Gebain will deal with him for us." 

"Yes, ma'am. And what about this one?" 

The Director watched as the alien's fingers slowly curled and uncurled — a sign that he was probably trying frantically to resist the drug in him, for all the good that could do him. "I haven't yet decided." 

"Yes, ma'am," her housekeeper said, then added hesitantly, "I think one of the staff has obtained a small supply of kepir…" 

"Don't be disgusting, Modvag," the Director interrupted her shortly. "My immediate plans for this one are to see that he attends the kepir hunt meal. If our elusive Mister Sulu is still alive, this one's presence will draw him out like fizhat draws poison from the sting of a jahhetah bug." 

"Yes, ma'am." 

"See that this one is watched carefully and that my guards are prepared to seize Lieutenant Sulu — or any of his supporters — and conduct him to my office, discretely and with as little disturbance as possible." 

"Yes, ma'am. Does this mean that you have abandoned your plans to leave the Station after the meal and go visit your family in Kishbaz?" 

The Director pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I will modify my itinerary as I need to. However, see that my things are packed and waiting in my car. This one may well be accompanying me." 

"Yes, ma'am." The low caste reached down to slap Chekov's hands, which he had finally managed to curl into fists. "I told you to sit still… Director, will I be accompanying you?" 

The Director looked up, trying to determine if the anxious undertone she'd heard in her subordinate's voice had been imagined or real. "Yes, I suppose so," she replied casually. "At any rate, I will not be attending Engineer Kahsheel's funeral. Considering the circumstances of her death, I think my attendance might send an inappropriate message." 

"Yes, ma'am." The housekeeper shook the ensign's clenched fingers loose and flattened them against his legs again. 

"Here, Modvag." The Director picked up a tablet and a writing implement. "Give him these. Chekov…" 

"Answer her," the low caste prompted, shaking his shoulder. 

"Yes, ma'am," he mumbled almost inaudibly as Modvag wrapped his right hand around the writing stick and placed the tablet on his knees. 

"I want you to sign Lieutenant Sulu's name," the Director ordered. "Write Sulu's name. Do you understand?" 

"Yes, ma'am." 

The Kibrian and her assistant watched as he slowly transferred the stick from his right to his left hand and scrawled four letters. Modvag gave her employer a significant look as she returned the tablet. 

The Director cleared her throat and pretended not to have noticed. "Their signatures are nothing alike," she said briskly. "Disappointing. That might have been most useful." 

It looked like her housekeeper was having a hard time not saying something. "Well," the Director asked impatiently. "You have your orders, Modvag." 

"Yes, Director. Come." She guided the ensign up by the shoulder of his livery. "About the kepir, ma'am…" 

"Yes," her employer replied shortly. "It might be appropriate to have a small supply on hand… In honor of the day."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"Datvin, let me try one more time to make this clear to you," Sulu said quietly as he walked down an empty corridor at the Station Manager's side. A good deal of his disguise relied on the hope that people wouldn't give someone in a Security uniform with its cloth cap that partially obscured the wearer's face a second glance. Two real security guards walked behind him. A sharp-eyed observer would have noted that they were armed and the lieutenant was not. "Although I personally have no problem with this little palace coup you're planning to stage, officially there is no way in hell I can be involved."

"Your active participation may not be required, Lieutenant," Datvin replied. "Your mere presence as a silent witness will hopefully preclude any unseemly contradiction when I make my charges and will, I hope, prompt certain parties to come forward with information, motivated by fear of what you might say if you so choose." 

"Look," Sulu said, struggling to keep up with the Kibrian's punishing pace. "My first responsibility is to my team…" 

"I assure you that Mister Johnson is perfectly safe." 

"And Ensign Davies…" 

The corners of the Kibree's mouth turned down. "Unfortunately we are unsure of her present location." 

"I've been told she's being held…" 

"…By the low castes," Datvin finished for him without dropping a beat. "In the tunnels. Yes, that is a possibility. However, if that is the case and she is alive, locating her is a near impossibility." 

Sulu slowed stubbornly to a halt. "I have a tricorder in my quarters — if you haven't confiscated that too. Since Davies is one of the very few humans on this planet, I could use it to find her, if she's still in the station." 

The Kibrian frowned mightily as he turned. "Lieutenant, if my information is correct, every life on this station is in imminent danger. Each second you dawdle brings us all a step closer to destruction." 

Sulu folded his arms. "None of which changes the fact that my orders specifically prohibit me from becoming involved in this planet's internal affairs." 

Datvin's eyes narrowed. Sulu forced himself to remain unaffected by the Kibrian's withering gaze, which had been honed, no doubt, by generations' worth of experience in browbeating subordinates. 

"Mister Sulu, let me now make this perfectly clear to you," he said, with a frightening variety of icy calm. "If you accompany me into the banquet hall, I will put a full squadron of my best men at your disposal to retrieve Ensign Davies. If you do not, I will personally see that every 'tricorder' or comparable scanning device on this Station is smashed to a billion pieces and I will have you and Ensign Johnson bound, gagged and thrown into the tunnels after her. That is, if I don't decide it's more expedient simply to have both of you shot." 

When the guard behind him pressed a weapon to his back, Sulu moved slowly forward. In light of the Kibree's threats, the lieutenant decided he needed to take a little time to reconsider his position. His knowledge of Kibrian culture didn't prepare him to gauge how far the Station Manager might be willing to go in these extraordinary circumstances. 

"Datvin," he began reasonably as they rounded a corner. Unfortunately the lieutenant had taken a moment too long to consider, for now he found himself in the hallway outside the great dining hall. The Station Manager gestured him to silence. 

"Take charge of him," the Kibree quietly ordered his guards. "Lieutenant, I suggest you do nothing to draw attention to yourself. That could have unfortunate results for all involved." 

Sulu glanced uneasily back at the guard's weapon, wondering if that meant the underlings' orders were to do away with anyone who happened to notice him. "Where will you be?" 

"It is my privilege to serve tonight's main course," Datvin informed him, remaining at the door as the guards ushered the lieutenant into the hall. "Although I fear some won't find it to have a particularly sweet taste."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kepir hunt feast turns into a riot

"Nith! If you'll just listen to me..! Put me..!" In the midst of her demand, Davies realized that she was being hoisted from her captor's shoulder. "…down."

The ex-kiani had carried her to a place full of the sounds of women and children. He lowered her to a filthy mat.

"Wait!" Davies cried out as she thought she heard him begin to move away. "Nith! Please! You can't just leave me in this state! Have some pity."

Her guard hesitated, but after a moment he carefully removed the sack obscuring her vision.

Davies found herself in the corner of a ill-lit chamber. Kibrians peered at her from a safe distance. The small crowd was made up of mostly women, but there were a few children and men — most of whom looked sick or lame. The ones that wouldn't be able to run very fast, Davies decided

"You will be quite safe here," Nith assured her, beckoning one of the women forward.

Davies struggled up to a sitting position as the servant woman approached reluctantly. The Kibrian had dark skin and a ragged child clinging to the skirt of her robe.

"Sister Nula," Nith introduced her as politely as any Welshman at Sunday chapel. "This is Sister Day-Veez. She must stay here. If no one sends for her before Engineer Kahsheel's funeral, you women must take her with you when you go to the safe place. Do you understand?"

The dark-skinned woman frowned mightily and planted her hands against her broad hips. "No, Nith. I take no understanding why you give burden to me of this cursed Feddie mort when I have crying nammies to give sight to and two score toasted slags to give dosing of kvurr to before first moonset-time."

"We each have our responsibilities, Sister," the ex-kiani began placatingly.

"Nith," Davies interrupted, "untie me."

"Give no ear to that, Nith," Nula vetoed abruptly.

"She gave no ear when the curly red one put our Feddie in gold chains," a fresh voice added.

Davies rolled her eyes when she recognized her new accuser as Chekov's blue-skinned admirer. So much for the possibility of a sympathetic audience.

Nith held up a silencing hand. "Sisters, we have no time for this dissension…"

"What time is it?" Davies demanded.

"It wants but a few minutes of the first moonset and the commencement of the Meal in honor of the Kepir. Selrideen gave the kepir to the lady Kaloshen, so that she would accept his favors…"

"Yes, I'd love to hear all about that some other time, but I know that… that is to say, I've heard a rumor that someone was planning to blow up this station at first moonset." Davies watched the women exchange uneasy glances. "But you've been told to keep me here until Kahsheel's funeral."

"Normally the Meal would commence after first moonset. At that time, the servants would be gathered in the kitchen yards, waiting for the celebration to begin, while the children are entertained in the gardens by actors and puppets paid for by the kiani…"

Nith had a thorough, scholarly approach to imparting information that threatened to drive Davies to violence.

"But tonight isn't normal?"

"No. The Meal has been brought forward because of the need to prepare for the funeral feast. And similarly, the destruction has been put back because of the greater opportunities the funeral offers."

The ex-kiani seemed to experience uncharacteristic reticence when it came to spelling out exactly what those opportunities might be.

"So everyone is safe, for the moment?"

"Those who serve Selrideen are always in his care," Nith assured her obliquely.

'Apart from the lady Kaloshen,' Davies didn't point out. So, the kepir was either something highly desirable or something that would impair one's judgement. Perhaps she should be wary if anyone offered her anything today… anything at all. "Nith, you said.… You seemed to disagree with the way the kiani behave. Are you sure you think blowing up people is a good idea? Some innocent people are bound to get hurt." She had herself, Sulu and Johnson chiefly in mind, but it seemed tactless to say so.

Nith turned his eyes away from her. "What would you do if you were in my place? I think you would fight, wouldn't you, Sister?"

"Yes. I'm quite sure I would."

"The children are still safe… and the servants," Nith said, regaining his composure. You will be safe, if you remain here and do as you are told."

Davies formed the strong impression that Nith really was very uncomfortable with what he was doing. "I wouldn't presume to tell you what you should and shouldn't do on your own world, Nith, but please, couldn't you at least try to warn my friends… Lieutenant Sulu and Ensign Johnson. I don't even know where they are…"

Nith rose. "I must go now. The servants will be admitted to the dining hall at any moment. It will arouse comment if I am late."

"Wait!" Davies protested, but it was the blue-skinned woman's hand on his arm that stopped the ex-kiani.

"Nith," the slave asked urgently, "does our Feddie still take dead?"

"Yes!" Nula snorted contemptuously. "And good riddance!"

Nith, on the other hand, made no reply other than to attempt to pull free of the servant woman's grasp.

The blue-skinned Kibree held him fast. "They make talk that Mras took property of a kirrie that had the Feddie's form."

"I must go," the ex-kiani insisted, trying to peel those work-hardened fingers off his arm.

"Yes," Davies corroborated. "They put me in with him. He sounded like Chekov — I could have sworn he was Chekov — but he looked like a Kibree… 

"The Feddie… alive?" Nula repeated incredulously.

"Who is Mras holding, Nith?

"What means he to do…?"

"Enough of this foolishness!" Nith cut them off in a commanding voice from his previous life. "Go back to your assignments, all of you. Time is short. Do as you are told and you will be safe."

This seemed to cow the majority of the bystanders. Nula shepherded her friends and offspring away from Davies' mat, pausing occasionally to cast a resentful glance over her shoulder. Only the blue woman stayed stubbornly in place.

"Help me secure these ropes, Sister," Nith ordered her. "Don't worry about Chekov," he said softly as the two of them knelt at Davies' ankles. "He's with Selrideen."

"In the afterlife?" the blue woman said.

"Look," Davies whispered back impatiently. "I don't want to knock your religion, but believing that doesn't promise much help for me."

When Nith looked up from her ankles, Davies sucked in a deep breath. Had she just thrown away any willingness the Kibree had to help her with this display of agnosticism?

He looked down his long nose at her. "Finding oneself a servant amongst one's former peers is enough to make anyone thirsty for revenge. You can believe that. But I do not think Chekov intends to let even you burn, mistress."

The title was a slap in the face that Davies didn't even register. "Are you saying he's alive or not?"

"I sent him to Selrideen," Nith replied firmly.

The blue woman's eyes flew open. "You murdered…?"

"No, no," Nith hushed her. "I sent word of the change in plan to Selrideen — to the dream peddler — by way of the alien. You must not speak of this to anyone."

"The Feddie has taken life again as a Kibbie?" the blue woman asked slowly.

When Nith rolled his eyes at this, Davies was ashamed to admit she had basically the same question. "Are you sure the person you sent was Chekov?" she asked nonetheless. "He was certified dead by our paramedic several hours ago and the man I saw definitely looked Kibrian."

Nith frowned at her as if he were puzzled that she could have made such an error. "Well… I imagine if one of the four of you was not genuinely human, you could immediately see through their disguise while no Kibrian would suspect anything, but… truly, he is not a very convincing Kibree."

"I… I see. But he was so ill…"

"Don't be concerned," Nith instructed, fussing with the ropes around her ankles. "It was just the peeva — or lack of peeva. Mras gave him a portion. He should be able to find his way back to his master — if that is where he wants to go."

"Yes. I think that is where he'd want to go." Davies frowned as she realized the Kibree actually was tightening her bonds. "Wait, Nith, you can't leave me here."

"Do as you're told and you will be perfectly safe," Nith assured her again as he checked the ropes around her wrists.

"You don't understand. I've got to get back to Sulu too — wherever he is. There's no guarantee Chekov can find him. I couldn't. You don't know what's going on up there. If Chekov isn't dead, there's a good chance he could wind up that way wandering around drugged…"

"Watch her carefully," Nith instructed the blue woman, then gave her homely face a reassuring pat. "And have faith in Selrideen, Sister. He will take care of your Feddie."

"Nith!"

The Kibree gave Davies no opportunity for further appeals. A wooden door exiting the low, vaulted chamber swung closed behind him with a resounding bang, leaving the ensign alone with her wardress in the yellow lamplight. The blue skinned woman sat back on her heels. She seemed thunderstruck by Nith's revelations. Davies could sympathize.

"The Feddie takes life again," the Kibrian said softly to herself. "As the old stories give telling… Then comes Selrideen."

"What?"

When the Kibree looked at her, Davies couldn't tell if the woman were happy or terrified.

"Soon comes Selrideen," she repeated simply.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

The Alareen relay station was virtually the first unashamedly modern building Johnson had seen on Kibria. It seemed to be a product of the bizarre love affair with reinforced concrete that most emergent cultures went through at some stage. Rust-colored streaks draped its windowless facade and dusty succulents clung to a marginal existence in over-sized tubs. The facility looked as though it could have been closed down for a few hours or a few centuries.

The main entrance was a tall door set flat into the wall. It was currently in shadow and Johnson shivered as he waited for his escort to retrieve the key from his voluminous robe.

"Ah, here we are." The Kibree withdrew the mace-like affair. "If you'd just stand over there while I deal with the lock…"

The door swung open smoothly into what Johnson's eyes momentarily interpreted as darkness. Once he arrived inside, his vision quickly adapted to the shadows. 

"The subspace research unit is in the Albrikk wing." His guide put a friendly hand on his shoulder and turned him to the left.

Johnson froze when he also felt the cold touch of something metal press against his back.

"Yes, Mr. Johnson, I have a gun," his companion informed him pleasantly. "No heroics, please. We don't want to set off any alarms, do we? I don't think either one of us is here with the unconditional blessing of the authorities."

"Hold on a minute…"

"Forward, Mr. Johnson," his guide ordered, nudging him with the barrel of his weapon. "As I was saying, we are entering the Albrikk wing of the station. My family misguidedly financed its construction before we realized just what uncontrolled communication with the rest of the galaxy would mean for Kibria. Along there, please."

"What are you… I just want to send a message to my ship. We want to leave Kibria…"

"I dare say you do, Mr. Johnson. And you shall, but on my terms, not yours."

"But the…"

"The Medical Officer kindly arranged for you to come here to call for help. I know. Unfortunately, the associate he chose to accompany you was also an associate of mine.… And I pay more generously. I don't know where he managed to obtain keys to this Station — presumably in some medical capacity or other — but I've been waiting for an opportunity to get in here for some time. This place is much more thoroughly protected than the Selrideen Station. Success here will enable Kibrians to bypass the Federation's controls and make their own decisions about their future. Or, more to the point, it will allow the wrong Kibrians to make such decisions. And we can't allow that."

"You're in favor of the Prime Directive?" Johnson asked, deciding to risk appearing naive if it would get him some answers about the political realities here.

"Oh, well, no… But while you don't want anyone on Kibria getting hold of your technology, I am more selective. I just don't want everyone on Kibria getting it. I could go along with the Federation but… I think my power base would be whittled away eventually, don't you? Isn't that what you've been telling yourselves? 'We don't much like this, but they'll have to change? In the end?' In here, please."

The metal gates the Kibree now opened led into a large space containing an ungainly subspace generator. Its power source and the shielding to keep so much power under control by relatively primitive means dwarfed the transmitter itself.

"Not exactly elegant, is it?" the Kibrian conceded. "You wouldn't believe how much of my family's money has been poured into that thing… And all for nothing. Now this, Mr. Johnson, is what I think you call a phaser, isn't it?" The Kibree brandished the weapon — which Johnson now recognized as one of the low power models that he and Davies had been issued for this mission. "And I would imagine its use is identifiable, so that if I…"

"It's not powerful enough to destroy that generator, not with all that shielding in the way. It's primarily an antipersonnel weapon, designed to be used at stun, not repeatedly at a disintegration setting…"

There were, however, several easily identifiable weak spots where a well aimed blast would set off a chain reaction within the generator itself.

"Mister Johnson, you are an intelligent man, despite your handicaps…" The Kibree tapped meaningfully on the palm of his hand with the muzzle of the phaser. "If I understand the situation in the palace currently, your leader, Lieutenant Sulu, is missing. And if I am inclined to believe the likes of Driant, he may be dead. The woman, Davies, is in the hands of the servants who infest the station like so much vermin. And the other one — what was his name? Kahsheel's pretty plaything…"

Johnson felt the color rising in his cheeks as he clamped his lips closed on a reply.

"An enchanting little spitfire, wasn't he?" The meteorologist had to look away from the Kibree's knowing smile. "Well, he's certainly dead… And that I do regret. I was sorely tempted to buy him myself, but I wasn't ready to cross Driant. If I had bought him, he'd at least be alive right now, so you needn't look so disapproving, Mr. Johnson."

Johnson swallowed his anger and concentrated on the barrel of the Kibrian's gun.

"Now, I am faced with a difficult choice." The Kibrian smiled. "And so are you. I can leave you here — with your phaser set to overload. That may not destroy the generator utterly. It may be salvageable with the resources currently available to the authorities. But your presence here, what remained of it, would at least make those authorities kick somewhat at what would be perceived as Federation interference in our legitimate attempts to break out of the straight jacket you impose. Or, I could permit you to contact your ship, allow you to assist me in the complete and casualty-free obliteration of the generator, and then put my considerable resources at your disposal for the location and subsequent protection of your surviving colleagues. Which is it to be?"

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

The elaborate furnishings of the dining hall had been replaced by ill-matched everyday chairs and tables from elsewhere. The crockery and metalware was plainly second best. Sulu thought the servants must find the charade an insulting mockery, but they filed in in seeming good humor and took the seats to which the waiting kiani directed them.

Normally there were at least as many servers as diners. That ratio wasn't being observed today. However the kiani were energetic in serving — suspiciously like they were anxious to get the meal over with. Although the servers had as many as three or four to attend to, full glasses fizzed at each place, dishes of meat appeared and were served, sauces and garnishes were distributed without delay.

For their part, the slaves accepted the service offered to them very politely. Sulu frowned. Of course they did. The taking of any liberties would be punished. Such a temporary reversal simply served to make everyone more aware of the proper order of things.

Sulu recognized several of the servants as he stood stationed between his two guards in an unobtrusive corner of the hall. There was Chekov's green friend… but not her blue companion. Naturally, there was no sign of Mras. Sulu tried to convince himself that the dwarf, having failed to wreck the station at the appointed time before the servants had all come into the main body of the building, had put his plan on hold. The lieutenant wished he was more sure.

Next to Sulu and his escorts, low castes were refilling glasses and dishes from larger containers. The clink and rattle of the operation nearly drowned the subdued conversation of the supposed guests. The low castes muttered and joked as they worked. The kiani, for the most part, remained stonily silent. Sulu leaned against the whitewashed wall and tried to tell himself that the wash of dizziness which threatened to engulf him was only the result of the heat, or hunger, or worry. Selrideen's poison wasn't so much slow acting as intermittent and unpredictable.

"We're short of servers. I don't know why so many of the kiani have failed to attend." Gebain glided into view, stately in a wheeled wicker chair. "You!" He gestured at the security men, Sulu among them. "Come on. This is taking far too long."

It seemed to the lieutenant that the diners were going to end up with indigestion at even the current speed of serving. Sulu stood his ground while one of his guards protested, "Sir, Manager Datvin's orders for us do not include waiting table."

Gebain fixed him with a cold stare. "Are you doing anything else useful?"

The guard was stumped. He could hardly say what he was doing without drawing attention to Sulu's presence. He shrugged unhappily.

"Then take those bowls to the tables, all three of you." The major domo spun his wheels and sailed off into the crush of people.

The guard looked at the three heavy trays of steaming dishes, then at Sulu. "Don't, please, draw attention to yourself, sir."

The sheer misery of the man, caught between Datvin and Gebain, pulled at Sulu's conscience. Also, it had to be reckoned that a refusal to obey Gebain's orders would draw attention to them as effectively as anything. Sulu let himself be handed one of the trays and set off to deliver it to the nearest end of the long central table.

As he set his burden down, he was able to look at the servants. Several of them had that air of idling in neutral — neither happy nor unhappy — that Chekov had displayed all too often the past few days. Many of the pairs of eyes fastened numbly on plates were red-veined. Their clothes reeked of sweetish smoke and oily sweat. Sulu could discern at least one good reason why the kiani weren't lingering over their tasks.

Out of the corner of his eye, the lieutenant noticed a servant woman near him covertly shaking red powder into a water glass. When she thought no one was looking, she placed the glass in the hand of a dull-eyed companion.

Kvurr, Sulu concluded, moving to the next table. It was easy to see that several of the guests had overindulged in this morning's entertainments and needed something to bring them around. However it seemed somehow sinister that this had to be done secretively.

Looking again at the faces of the diners, Sulu saw a lively resentment burning in the eyes of many, concealed only because the servants kept their heads down as they concentrated on making the most of the food the kiani laid before them.

"Sir…"

The lieutenant halted at this whispered summons. He found he was only a pace away from Chekov's green-skinned friend.

She caught at his arm and said loudly, in an obvious imitation of a kiani's manner, "This dish takes tough. Give it a good cutting."

There was a ripple of laughter from the surrounding servants. But it died prematurely as one or two of the kiani looked disapprovingly at the woman.

"Certainly, ma'am." Sulu laid the last of his dishes on the table beside her. He picked up a couple of implements and began to dismember the stuffed and sauce coated vegetable on the woman's plate. Its outer skin was quite tough and he had the odd impression it was trying to get away from him. He put this irrationality down to the double vision and clumsy numbness he was currently experiencing.

"Give a careful ear, Feddie," Dollu said softly as he bent near. "Some make speech that the curly red one's pyre will be Selrideen's palace."

Sulu paused in his task. The dizziness threatened to overwhelm him. As if she could sense this, the woman took hold of his arm and held it until the fit passed. "And some make speech that…"

"What do you think you're doing?" Datvin reappeared from nowhere. Both Sulu and the green-skinned woman started guiltily. The Station Manager snatched the cutlery from Sulu's hands and dropped them onto Dollu's plate. "Follow me!" he snapped brusquely.

Resisting the urge to apologize to the servant woman, the lieutenant obeyed. His escort left the work Gebain had set them to dog Sulu's footsteps again.

Datvin led his small procession to the Director who was serving a token dish of fruit to a servant obviously specially selected for cleanliness and a pleasant manner. Datvin motioned the guards to fall back a discrete distance and tapped the Director on her shoulder. "I must speak with you, Madame Director."

"What about, Datvin?" She turned. "Have you a new calamity to announce?"

"No, Madame. I seek to avert one."

Sulu could see panic creep into the Kibrian's face. Like a cornered animal, she glanced about. Her eyes fastened quickly on Sulu. Before she could raise her hand to summon the attention of one of her aides, Datvin clamped her wrist. Sulu had to admire the Manager's strategic positioning. With her back to the tables, there was no graceful way for the Director to alert her allies that anything out of the ordinary was taking place.

"Please listen to what I have to say," Datvin said quietly. "It is ultimately in your own interests."

"I wasn't aware that Lt. Sulu had joined the Security Forces." The Director delicately shook her hand free and crossed her arms. "That seems perilously close to interference to me."

"The lieutenant is here to serve as a witness to our conversation," Datvin replied humorlessly. "I felt I required a third party. One who is incorruptible…" The Director started an objection, but the Manager continued over her, "…as we both know from personal experience. As others will know, he represents no special interest group here on Kibria and has taken no one's part. Also, we both know, do we not, that his death or disappearance would bring questions and investigations at the highest level."

Sulu saw the Director's lips tighten at this and wondered if the orders for his kidnapping and assassination had come from her.

"The death of his servant may be reckoned unfortunate," Datvin continued. "Another such incident would not be so lightly dismissed."

The Director blew an impatient breath out her nostrils. "Say what you have to say."

"You are under pressure to secure the contract for the construction on Eenos for a particular party. You know they are corrupt and incompetent. It will do nothing for this station, or, ultimately, for your reputation if they are successful in getting what they desire. It is likely that the eventual failure of Eenos will be laid at their door and will in itself lead to the very revelations you wish to avoid."

The Director didn't even blink. "What revelations?"

"That your family has consistently for more than a generation engineered the results of the Vaytha in its own interests."

Sulu had to give the Kibree credit. She managed to look a great deal less stunned than the lieutenant himself felt at that moment.

"You have evidence to support this slander?"

The Manager smiled coldly. "Madame Director, the decline of this Station under your leadership speaks loud enough to those who will hear, but I also have medical records, reports of attainment, statistical analyses…"

"It seems to me that you intend to threaten me with exactly the same scandal you claim I fear from Ffa… from.."

"From Ffafner," Datvin finished for her, firmly crushing any hope that she might have had that her slip had gone unnoticed. "I do. You can, however, elegantly avoid either threat. Madame, I expect to receive tonight your resignation — on the ground s of ill health — which your Medical Officer will substantiate. I will, of course, step temporarily into the breach…"

"You forget yourself, Datvin."

"….Temporarily into the breach while a proper replacement is selected — probably with your experience and judgement being called upon. However…" The Kibrian's urbane tone chilled. "I assure you, I will be in control long enough to halt the putrefaction over which you and your family have too long presided."

The clink and clatter of the diners sounded inappropriately light in contrast to the deadly silence between the two Kibrians.

Datvin folded his hands calmly behind his back. "May I know what you intend to do, Madame Director?"

The Director turned a narrow eye on Sulu, as if the trap laid by the Manager was his responsibility. "And what have you to say about all this, Lieutenant?"

"Well…" Sulu began reluctantly. Thus far, his humble role in this drama had been completely acceptable. Star Fleet guidelines did not frown on officers acting as neutral third parties in intra-planetary disputes. He now had to be careful to say no thing that would violate that neutrality, though.

"Mister Sulu has nothing to say," Datvin intervened. "His duties and responsibilities preclude his playing any other part in this."

"Yes." A purely malicious look settled on the Director's face. "But isn't the lieutenant's first duty to the safety of his men?"

"If that statement is an attempt at blackmail, then it is an extremely poor and ill-timed one," Datvin replied disdainfully. "I remind you, Madame, that I command the Security forces. Mr. Johnson is no longer in your control and we are both fully aware that Ensign Davies is also well beyond your reach."

The Director kept her eyes on Sulu. "Look around this hall, Lieutenant," she invited him, "and weigh the consequences of your inaction."

The only thing that Sulu could see was that the Director didn't know what was going on behind her. Armed Security guards were stationed near each of the exits. There were several individuals casting nervous glances in their direction, but there was no sign that the Director's allies were preparing to rally.

"As the Manager has said, I'm here only as a witness, Madame Director," Sulu said. "It wouldn't be appropriate for me to act on the behalf of one side or the other in this dispute."

"And what of your report recommending Ffafner as the best candidate for the Eenos project?" she pressed. "I assume you are still prepared to sign it as we discussed?"

Sulu frowned. What did this woman think she had on him? Here the Director was, seemingly only seconds from being ignominiously removed from her post and yet the Kibrian was still looking at him as if she thought he was only one push away from complete capitulation. "I have not prepared any such report and do not intend to do so until I complete my review of all the proposals. It is my duty to weigh all the candidates in a fair and impartial manner. And that's what I'm going to do. Threats from either one of you are a waste of time and, from my understanding, very questionable under Kibrian law."

Datvin rewarded him with a brief frown for being included in that 'either one of you'. The Director's face seemed to pale somewhat.

"The Vaytha certificates for members of my family are all in order…" she said, turning her attention back to Datvin.

"Of course. I'm not saying they aren't genuine certificates, signed by the proper persons. But the results reported do not match the original results and subsequent test scores — all of which are recorded in the computer system — which is more difficult to tamper with, as you know."

Sulu again found himself the subject of the Director's most hostile glare.

"I should have thought, Lieutenant," she said icily, "that a sophisticated application of your Prime Directive would be understood to mean more than simply arriving in the midst of a culture and reacting like a block of stone to its customs and traditions. My family has been held in respect for generations. Our judgement, our duty to our world, best carried out by preserving our influence, has always been understood by people of intelligence and discrimination to be more significant than the mindless application of rules by lower caste bureaucrats. Of course, I can't expect Datvin to follow this argument, but with your wider experience…"

"I understand perfectly. You can't see beyond the maintenance of your own privileged position and you don't care that the system based on it is unjust and inefficient."

She closed her eyes for a moment. "Very well, Manager Datvin. The announcement will be made this evening after Kahsheel's funeral. You will excuse me now."

"No, Madame Director," he stopped her. "It will be made now."

"I must be allowed some time to compose my thoughts, and words…"

"Now," he commanded. "I have spoken and there is no turning back. You may not be prepared to address this assembly, but I am. Which do you prefer?"

As the Director turned to face the hall, Sulu was struck with another upsurge of dizziness.

"May I have your attention, please." The Director's suddenly raised voice thundered in Sulu's ears. He took a step away in self-defense. "I hesitate to announce more ill tidings on a day which has already seen misfortune enough. The tragedy of Engineer Kahsheel's untimely death, the result of the temptations to which our Federation visitors expose us, temptations we must all learn to withstand, weighs heavily on us all. Nonetheless, I have for some days been intending to tell you something, something which I cannot in fairness to the welfare of you all delay any longer. Ill health has been my constant companion for some time now. I have battled against it, putting the Selrideen Project and the new Eenos initiative before my own interests. But the battle has become too much for me. And now I must announce, with great regret, my decision to resign. Manager Datvin has kindly consented to take on the routine supervision of the Station until the magistrates and administrative council can appoint my successor. I hope that appointment will not be unreasonably delayed, and that you will give my successor the loyal support that you have given me. Thank you."

It was difficult not to interpret the silence that greeted this speech as incredulity or hostility, even though Sulu was well aware that the Kibree had no tradition of applause in any form.

With her dignity wrapping her like a cloak, the Director turned to leave.

"A moment, please…" Datvin's voice stopped her and the rustle of whispers that had quickly risen. "Madame Director, assembled kiani, and citizens, I am afraid there is yet another unpleasant matter that demands our immediate attention…"

At this signal, security guards began gathering stragglers into the dining hall and closing all the heavy wooden doors. The tension in the room rose a notch with each ominous thud. Servers as well as diners began to glance about nervously.

"Most of you, I'm sure," Datvin continued, "are unaware that a plot — masterminded by the late Engineer Kahsheel — to destroy this station has been uncovered and rendered void by our Security Officers. Due to the… coincidence of Madame Director' s much regretted departure, I feel I must speak now to ensure that no connection is made in anyone's mind between these two events. The plan, a murderous devising that paid no respect to any inhabitant of this station from kiani to the lowliest cook, would have come to its climax just as power was restored after the kepir hunt and this meal commenced. Our security force has not been able to trace the full extent of complicity in this treason, but I think we can say that those kiani who should be here and are not must at least explain their absence. My officers will now take a roll of everyone present. There may also be a few additional questions for certain individuals."

A low buzz of conversation quickly rose.

"We will proceed, of course," Datvin said over it, "according to caste. Those seated at the dining tables will remain seated until instructed to do otherwise. Kiani, please cooperate with security forces. It is in your own interests to do so. Any individual leaving this hall without having his or her identity verified by a security officer will automatically be treated as a suspect in this investigation."

The silence was once more replaced by the murmur of a hundred anxious voices.

"He means to keep the slags here," Sulu heard a slave near him whisper to his companion. "He means to take hostage of us until funeral hour is past…"

"Manager." At the far end of the hall, a kiani discarded his tray and stepped forward. "I must point out that the Federation officers are not here."

Datvin nodded gravely. "I am aware of that. I know it has been conjectured that they wish to hamper our development, however it is my belief that this is only ignorant speculation. Nonetheless, their part — if any — in this plot will be investigated fully and objectively. Now please, kiani, proceed to the exits so that we may complete this in a timely manner. Those of you who are eating, feel free to continue. It may be some time before you are dismissed. Thank you."

"Thank you," Sulu said with heavy irony as the Manager turned to him and took him by the arm.

"No, no, Lieutenant," Datvin said, leading him back to his two escorts. "Don't be concerned. The question was bound to be raised. I was, frankly, quite interested to see who would voice it first. It is now my sincere wish, as it must be yours, to conclude our joint project successfully. I will arrange for a small force of men to meet you in the corridor outside in fifteen minutes to assist you in your search for Ensign Davies. Beyond that, however…"

"Yes?"

"Nothing else has changed. The law is still the law. I absolutely require you to respect that."

Sulu blinked. Was the poison making him paranoid, or did everyone seem to know something he didn't? "Of course."

With a gesture, Datvin split the guard, taking one man with him as he walked to a portal where kiani were beginning to gather and leaving the other behind to shepherd the lieutenant.

Sulu blew out a long breath as he glanced around the hall, feeling awkward and foolish in his borrowed uniform. He wished could sit down somewhere. No. Probably best to remain on his feet as long as he could. He scanned the tables until he relocated Chekov's green friend. Would there be objections if he decided to find out what she'd been trying to tell him earlier?

The servant woman was watching someone further down the tables. Sulu followed the direction of her stare.

Across the room, the Director's entourage was gathering around her. It looked as though they were massing to exit. Despite Datvin's instructions, several servants were included in their number. Sulu's eyes were drawn to what looked like a disturbance in the making. Apparently one of the servants was not ready to go. A young male, probably no more than an adolescent to judge by his size, had his head lowered and was stubbornly clinging to the table while a low caste stood over him repeating the order to leave over and over.

When the low caste lost her patience and jerked his chair backwards, the slave pulled the tablecloth with him causing a great clatter of upset dishes. The water glass in front of the rebellious little Kibree, Sulu noted, stained the cloth red when it fell.

Kibrian justice was swift, however. The low caste pulled her uncooperative charge to his feet and boxed his ears soundly.

The sound the young slave made when he was hit was so like Chekov that it made Sulu's skin crawl to hear it.

'Oh, God,' Sulu thought fleetingly, 'Am I going to spend the rest of my life seeing and hearing Chekov wherever I go?'

"Run, Feddie!" someone screamed. Sulu glanced back to find it was the green-skinned woman. Strangely enough, she wasn't looking at him as she yelled, but rather in the direction of the Director's entourage. "Take running now!"

Sulu didn't run, but for a moment it seemed that he was the only person in the room not taking the servant woman's advice. There was a great screech of wood against tile as the majority of the servants broke and ran for an exit. The upper castes stood momentarily stunned as dishes smashed to the ground and several of the large windows shattered as heavy chairs were thrown through them.

Privileged Kibree screamed in terror as slaves armed with suddenly very dangerous looking eating utensils shoved past them in their dash for the doors. The security men, though armed, were greatly outnumbered. Before some of their weapons had cleared their holsters, a good number of them were overwhelmed by the sudden swarm of servants.

The low castes recovered their composure first and began to set on their former charges with fists and cutlery, but it was already too late. Slaves, mid-castes and kiani poured out the broken windows and the few doors that had been forced open.

Sulu's guard grabbed his arm and stepped in front of him. The Kibree's weapon was drawn, but he couldn't seem to sight a clear shot at a rioter that wasn't blocked by an upper caste. He fired his weapon into the air a few times, but seeing that wasn't doing anything to help restore order, he pulled Sulu away from the direction of the most intense fighting. "Come with me, sir. We have to get you out of here."

He hurried the lieutenant through a doorway that had been abandoned when those guarding it had rushed to aid their comrades. "This way, sir," he instructed, pushing Sulu in front of him into the corridor. "For your own protection, I'm going to have to take you to the Security holding area until I receive further instruction. Please don't resist."

The guard didn't give him much of a chance to do otherwise, keeping one hand on his shoulder and his weapon pressed against the lieutenant's back as they moved down the corridor. Screaming and shouting Kibree of all castes streamed past them from all directions. Many carried bundles of possessions or plunder.

Sulu stumbled as another wave of dizziness hit him. His escort took this as an escape attempt and jerked him forward.

'I've got to find Davies,' Sulu thought. 'With things this far out of hand, the slaves may decide a hostage is more of a burden than an asset.'

And where was Johnson? The lieutenant wasn't at all convinced that Datvin's idea of the meteorologist's being 'perfectly safe' was going to coincide with his own. Also, if the looting that seemed to be going on here became widespread, someone needed to make sure their equipment was secure.

Suddenly Sulu heard a thud followed by a groan behind him. When the guard's grip on his shoulder loosened, the lieutenant broke and ran for all he was worth. There was no question of looking back to see what had happened.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"Look…" Davies paused. "Uhm… what's your name?"

The blue-skinned woman was sitting with her arms wrapped around her bony legs. She rested her chin on her knees. She'd been brooding like that for what seemed like ages.

"I cop no name," she replied stonily.

Davies frowned and resolved that the first thing she was going to do when she got out of this mess was to reprogram the translator to compensate for the slave caste dialect's eccentric verb formations. "Listen to me, if you really want to help Chekov, you'll let me go."

The woman made no reply.

"Just untie me," Davies coaxed. "We can fix it so you won't get in trouble. You could say I needed to go to the bathroom and…." Davies paused, realizing that a corner somewhere might be serving as the sanitary facilities. "Well, we can think of some reason…"

Suddenly there was the sound of pounding footsteps above them. Muffled shouts could be heard.

Nula's child began to cry. She quickly picked it up and put a hand over its mouth muffling the sound. The other women began to help the infirm to their feet and gather their meager belongings. Their silence was as ominous as the increasingly loud pounding above them.

One of the doors burst open. "Make haste!" someone entered yelling. "Make haste to the safe place!"

At this signal, all hell broke loose. Slaves poured in from entrances Davies had no idea existed. Many of them were wounded and bleeding. In the mad scramble it was hard to follow where anyone was going or what anyone was doing.

"Sister! Sister!" a servant woman gasped as she ran towards them. Davies recognized her after a moment as the green-skinned woman who had come to Sulu's quarters before.

There was a huge bruise on her cheek and blood on her clothes. She stumbled into the blue woman's arms.

"Dollu, what comes past?" The blue woman asked her, helping her down to the floor near Davies.

"The Feddie… the Feddie," she panted, gripping her friend's arms.

"…Is with Selrideen," the blue woman finished eagerly.

"No! No!" Dollu shook her head. "Director herself has taken property of him. She's swagged him full measure with peeva and given him disguising as Kibbie so that she might make sport with him under the Kibbie-eyed one's very nostrils."

"The Director?" Davies repeated.

"It's a slidely disguising," Dollu said, ignoring her. "Kibbie-eye takes no knowledge…"

"…Or no care," the blue woman speculated unkindly.

"We passed the Feddie cup, but he wouldn't take the full drinking of it," Dollu reported mournfully.

Despite her distress, the blue woman smiled. "Our Feddie always took pickish about his food and drink."

Tears stood in the other servant's eyes as she shared her friend's smile. "Sister, you should have taken sight at Feddie's face when he took of the kvurr." She did a credible imitation of Chekov tasting something bitter. "I first took knowledge it was truly him at that sight."

"Untie me," Davies commanded, hoping they'd finally pay attention to her this time. "I've got to get to Sulu and tell him what's happened."

The two Kibrians looked at her unsympathetically.

"If the Director's got Chekov," Davies said, picking something she knew they'd agree with, "then he's in terrible danger. We have to organize a rescue for him."

The two women looked at each other.

"The funeral hour comes," the blue woman reminded her companion. "And Director is likely to have made swift with the Feddie to her hill place.… And we be but slags…"

Dollu weighed this for a moment, then sighed.

"You can't mean that you're not even going to try?" Davies said, outraged. "She may kill him."

"Oh, no." The green woman seemed very sure of this. "He may take tasting of her stick for his stubbornness and temper…"

"More like he'll take tasting of her kepir and say naught," her companion put in.

Dollu nodded. "It's for the Kibbie-eyed one to take claim of what is his by right."

Both women seemed bitter but resigned to the fact that — as far as Davies could tell — it looked like Chekov was going to end up a drugged sex slave of some sort. "Yes, but Mr. Sulu is going to need some help…"

The two women looked at her dubiously.

"You both know that Chekov would really prefer to be with Sulu than with the Director, don't you?" Davies said persuasively. "You both saw how fond he was of Sulu…"

"I saw the Feddie take hot with temper when he took raps at the Kibbie-eyed one's ordering," countered the blue-skinned woman, who seemed to have developed quite an argumentative streak. "And Dollu heard the Feddie fall to cold cursing after the Kibbie-eyed one made claim of him by giving kiss in front of all."

"He took temper…" her companion tried to dismiss the incidents.

"The Feddie took no temper when Curly Red claimed him so," the blue woman argued. "Perhaps he'll take none when Director…"

"Ladies…" Davies tried to interrupt over the green woman's objections and the blue woman's explicit projection of the Director's intentions. "Please, ladies… sisters…"

The women stared at her. "You call us 'sister'?"

"Yes." Davies looked back and forth between them. "Did I say something wrong?"

"You be the girl-Feddie," the blue woman reminded her. "A kiani."

"We 'Feddies' don't have kiani among ourselves," Davies informed her. "We believe all people are equal. No kiani and no servants. Just equals."

"But the Kibbie-eyed one made property…"

"That was just…" Davies had to cast about a moment for an explanation. She'd fallen far enough into the Kibrian way of thinking that it was hard to remember there was one. "That's temporary. That's only because of the laws here. Sulu had to claim Chekov to keep him from being sold permanently into slavery. Chekov will be free when we return to the Federation. It's our law that no one is a slave. All people are equal. All people are brothers and sisters." 

"Then you take knowledge of Selrideen?" the blue woman broke in.

"I'm… I'm not sure of what you mean."

"Our stories give telling that when Selrideen makes his coming, all will be as brothers and sisters. Selrideen has made coming to you?"

"Yes," Davies agreed slowly, realizing that the women must be talking about Selrideen the religious figure rather than the dream-peddler. "In a way, I suppose that's true."

Dollu leaned forward and began to pull loose the knots binding Davies' ankles. "Today Selrideen comes to us."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"Does the rope chafe your neck?" the Director asked the small servant she had tethered to a structural beam in the Data Retrieval room.

The servant made no reply. He continued to pull miserably at the knot at his throat with his bound hands.

The Director looked up from the portable generator she was trying to tie into one of the computer terminals. "I hope you're not thinking of trying to escape," she warned. "That would only irritate me."

The servant stared at the floor and pulled at the rope around his neck.

"I would think that you'd had enough of being punished for one day, hmm?" she said sternly. "Are you listening to me? I said, do you want to be punished?"

The servant slowly lowered his hands.

"That's better," the Director said, turning back to her work. "Besides, you won't have the necessary mental or physical co-ordination to make a proper attempt for several more hours."

From behind one of the grilles in the wall, Sulu frowned at the scene. Where was Johnson? After escaping from his guard, the lieutenant had managed to make his way back to his quarters and retrieve his tricorder. He'd decided to locate and liberate Johnson before braving the tunnels. Although he was afraid that the danger for Davies grew with every second he delayed, he knew it would be pointless to go down there alone and unarmed.

He'd picked up two human readings apart from him own. One was vague and indistinct — originating in the vicinity of the kitchens. Sulu assumed that the stronger reading that came from near the Control Room had to be Johnson. He thought this was confirmed by the presence of the armed Kibrians he'd spotted guarding the entrance. However, after torturously making his way here through the maintenance access ways, all he found was this puzzling scene.

The Director's aim wasn't hard to figure out. She was desperate to erase those damaging records of her family's test scores. Sulu had no idea why she'd gotten the idea that she could do it at this particular location, though. Even if she managed to activate one of these terminals, she'd never be able to access the files she was looking for. The relevant links were security locked for Federation access only. She'd never be able to fool the retina scanner.

It was harder to figure out why she'd brought the slave with her. It would have been more in character for a Kibrian to come alone to do something as patently illegal as this. No witness, no crime, advised one of their well-worn proverbs. And besides , slaves were never allowed in the Control Room. Sulu knew that these were exceptional circumstances, but the Kibrians were very tradition-bound people. Even amidst the anarchy reigning in the corridors, he'd witnessed several almost comic examples of Kibree continuing to observe customs and respect taboos despite the chaos.

"I see that you've stopped answering me," the Director commented over her shoulder to her captive. "I suppose that means you're ready for another dose of peeva?"

The slave made an inarticulate noise of dread, pleading and negation.

It was absolutely unnatural how much he sounded like Chekov.

"Don't whine, young man," the Director scolded as she flipped a row of switches. "It's unbecoming."

Sulu chewed his lip. The Director didn't even seem to like this particular servant. He was the one who'd clung to the table in the dining room. Despite his obviously drugged state, he still wasn't co-operating the way a typical servant would. Sulu had never noticed this servant before. It seemed like he would have stood out. For one thing, he looked remarkably like Chekov — for a Kibrian.

Sulu wondered if his eyes were playing tricks on him. Was it the drug in his veins making him see resemblances that weren't really there? Was he only seeing and hearing echoes of his dead friend in this young Kibree because he so wanted to see Chekov?

Sulu wished he could find Johnson. The readings had definitely indicated that he was in this room. Perhaps he was unconscious and out of sight behind one of the consoles. Sulu was waiting for the Director to activate her portable generator. The noise from the unit would mask the sound of his tricorder and let him recheck the readings.

"And you should concentrate on being as becoming as possible," the Director was advising her prisoner as she connected a series of leads. "For I fear you may only have a short time to live. However, conduct yourself properly and you'll have all the peeva you want — well, perhaps somewhat more than that."

The servant made another heart-wrenchingly familiar sound of distress.

"I'll see you'll have some kepir, too." The Director smiled as the generator hummed to life. "You'll enjoy that won't you?"

Sulu wriggled around so that he could reach his tricorder as the Director crossed to her captive and loosened the rope tying him to the beam.

"I certainly intend to enjoy you," she promised jerking the slave's chin up. "I intend to enjoy you to the fullest before I send you to whatever gods await your sort in the afterlife."

Sulu pointed the tricorder into the room as the Director hooked her fingers under the rope around the slave's neck and pulled him over to the active computer terminal.

"The only thing that would increase my pleasure would be if somehow your master could know what I am going to do with you," the Director said, forcing the slave down into the chair in front of the terminal.

Sulu blinked at his readings in disbelief as the Kibree reached over the slave's shoulder to type something into the computer. The drug must be making him hallucinate. There were too many readings. Too many human readings.

"Identify," the Director ordered, holding the slave's head up and his eyes open.

"Chekov," the computer responded calmly. "Pavel A. Ensign, USS _Enterprise_."

"Che…" Sulu started to say when suddenly he felt a sharp tug at his ankles. Someone was trying to pull him backwards. "No!"

The lieutenant tried to pull himself free, but a sudden jerk from his attacker smashed his head into a conduit.

"Chekov…" he whispered as the world went black.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Johnson hesitantly parked the ground vehicle as close as he could to where he'd first encountered it. No one was paying any attention, at least. There were knots of agitated kiani standing around in the courtyard. Low castes, heavily burdened, flowed in and out of the great main doors to the station like ants whose nest had been disturbed.

Naturally, Johnson's mind went at first to the threat of destruction that had been hanging over the station. That hour was now past.

However, there was no smoke, no flames. Certainly the facade of the station was intact. The terraced wall behind which the great cistern hid was in one piece and the fuel tanks beneath the courtyard on which he'd just parked were clearly undamaged. Perhaps the panic was merely a reaction to the threat becoming public.

Whatever the situation, Johnson's duty was clear. He had to go back into the station and ensure that Sulu, Chekov and Davies were no longer inside, or get them out if they were. Armed with the phaser he'd reclaimed from Albrikk, he felt a little more confident than he had been earlier. He disliked violence. It seemed to him to be a failure of manners and strategy that, in his experience, rarely worked to his advantage. However the ease with which he'd overpowered the kiani in the relay station had stirred his blood. Now, he was determined to save Chekov and the others. Anything else that might happen was a by-product of the Kibrians' own shenanigans. They would have to deal with the consequences.

As he shut the door of the vehicle and walked — as nonchalantly as he could — to the Station, his heart was sinking within him. The mass of kiani were paying no attention to him, but a familiar figure was emerging from the building.

Datvin barked an angry dismissal at the low castes who clustered around him and rushed to meet the ensign, almost tripping on his robe in his haste. "Johnson, what are you doing here?"

Johnson swallowed, then decided to put the cat among the pigeons. The fact that Albrikk hadn't been able to get access to the relay station seemed to suggest that he didn't have anyone like Datvin on his side. "I was at the Alareen Relay Station, sending a message to the _Enterprise_."

"You should have submitted an official request for permission through the Director…" Datvin sputtered.

"Which, since I was officially in custody, would presumably have been turned down," Johnson pointed out icily.

"How did you get access? The Station is closed today…"

"I'm aware of that. Someone agreed to help me. Unfortunately, it turned out that the price for that help was my assistance in destroying the subspace generator."

Datvin paled. "It was the Director, wasn't it? That worthless… She means me to be remembered as the acting Director of two piles of smoking rubble. I'm finished."

"Calm down. The Relay Station is still in one piece."

Datvin's eyes hardened. He smoothed down his robe before turning a supercilious gaze back on the ensign. "Who was this 'someone'? How do I know you're not making all this up?"

"Why should I? Anyway, I don't know enough about the situation here to make up anything that would convince you I was telling the truth. Whoever he was, he didn't tell me his name, but he said that his family had financed the research on the generator . I think he said something about Albrikk…"

"Oh, great Kideo's rings, oceans and archipelagos!" Datvin looked as though he'd been pole-axed. "We're finished. We're all finished. This is the end of the Eenos initiative, Mr. Johnson. This is the end of my career. I'll be selling meat before the week is out."

"What's happening here?" Johnson interrupted stolidly.

"There is a threat to destroy this Station. I thought it was just an empty rumor, or a piece of wanton vandalism dreamed up by some disaffected servants. The lower orders panicked and ran from the kepir feast. Of course, many of us took that as a sign that the threat was imminent, but nothing has happened yet. Now, if Albrikk is behind it, we must take it very seriously. He has the resources to level this place. I need your sensor device, your tricorder, to make a search of the palace."

"You have my tricorder," Johnson pointed out.

"We must have your expertise to operate it." The Kibrian pulled him forward by the arm. "Can it detect explosives? Caches of weapons? A build-up of gas or oil?"

Johnson pulled away stubbornly. "You know the difficulty with your request…"

"Johnson." Datvin insisted, taking the tricorder out from within his robe and presenting it to the ensign. "Why did this Albrikk want you at the relay station? Did he need your help to destroy it?"

"Uh, probably not…"

"No, he could have had fifty workers with pallets of explosive from his quarries turn up and flatten it. But that would have clearly thrown suspicion on him, not you. I believe some method will be found to blame you for the destruction of the Selrideen Station also. We have not yet found Miss Davies. Lieutenant Sulu I lost track of in the initial confusion — despite the fact that I'd offered him men to help in his search for the others. Perhaps he decided he didn't want to find you. And Chekov…"

"Yes?" Johnson replied calmly. "I don't see how Chekov can be blamed for any of this. Death is a fairly conclusive alibi."

"Oh, come now, Mr. Johnson. We both know that Chekov isn't dead. What he is, is a useful bargaining tool for the Director. She has custody of him and may be planning to leave the Station with him."

Johnson hesitated as he assimilated this. Knowing Chekov was still in danger undermined his confidence. However he continued as smoothly as he could. "But how can she — at a moment of crisis like this?"

"Ah, of course. You don't know. The Director has resigned. The computers of this station contain evidence of corruption on her part that she preferred not to…"

"I know where she is," Johnson snapped. "And she'll have Chekov with her. The data retrieval room."

"Can she do anything from there?"

"I more or less told her she could," Johnson admitted heading for the main doors. "I just don't know if she believed me, or if she's desperate enough to try…"

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

As soon as he regained consciousness, Sulu pulled violently away from whomever it was that was half-dragging, half-carrying him down a corridor. Unfortunately his legs weren't as far along as his brain was and collapsed under his weight almost immediately .

"Come, come, Lieutenant," a familiar voice scolded. "Where can you be hurrying off to? Surely you don't believe these hysterical rumors the servants are putting about?"

Sulu looked up into the face of the Kibrian who was reaching a hand down to him. "Uyal?"

The kiani smiled. "You thought yourself well rid of me, didn't you? Fortunately I was operating with a friend. I considered simply letting myself be found so that I could add my testimony to the case against you, but when my colleague told me what had happened, I realized I wanted a more personal satisfaction."

"What had happened?" Sulu asked blearily.

Uyal dragged him to his feet. The lieutenant's limbs seemed to have the consistency of cotton wool. He didn't have the strength to pull away as he was half-led, half-carried to a nearby doorway.

"It means so little to you?" Uyal demanded contemptuously, depositing him on a couch in what appeared to be some sort of anteroom.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Sulu tried to wipe his blurred vision back into focus. "Think I've been poisoned. Can't think clearly."

Uyal grabbed Sulu's shoulders and shook him until the lieutenant's teeth rattled. "I'm talking about Engineer Kahsheel. She was murdered by your sniveling, cow-eyed concubine. Poisoned. Do you remember that?"

Sulu nodded groggily.

"So you've been poisoned." The kiani released him with a shove. "Slow poison, I hope?"

"That's what he said," Sulu admitted. "So you don't have to kill me."

"What makes you think I'm going to kill you?"

"Aren't you?" It almost seemed funny to the lieutenant. "I'm losing track of who is and who isn't."

"I'm not going to kill you," Uyal assured him. "But I am going to keep you here until after Kahsheel's funeral. By that time, it will be too late for you to prevent my revenge."

"Revenge?" Sulu echoed.

The kiani smiled. "Yes. I intend to find your little servant and bring him here. I shall use him as he used Kahsheel — in front of you. Then I shall bind and gag him and conceal him in the carriage that will deliver Kahsheel's remains into the fires. It's a Kibrian tradition. One that I shall enjoy honoring."

"He's dead," Sulu said — though somewhat less certainly that he would have a few hours before. "Kahsheel killed him."

Uyal began to laugh. There was a disturbing note of hysteria in his mirth. "And took poison herself because he didn't return her affections, I suppose? Lieutenant, you've read too much of our popular fiction. She was infatuated with him, I admit, but not to that degree. What did it matter whether he cared for her or not? She had him anyway. Everyone had him — including your own Ensign Davies, I hear."

Sulu tried to struggle up from the couch. "He's dead. It doesn't matter if he killed Kahsheel or she killed him, does it? They're both dead."

"No." Uyal shook his head, seemingly unwilling to believe that he couldn't put his nauseating plan into effect. "My associate told me that he was in custody…"

"He died in a cell in the Security Office," Sulu insisted, partly to the kiani and partly to reaffirm to himself the facts as he knew them to be before coming under the influence of the dream peddler's drug. "He survived that long because Kahsheel didn't give him enough poison. He was confused and frightened…" This suddenly mattered a great deal to Sulu. Alone and helpless as he felt now, Chekov had probably felt worse for longer.

Uyal twisted his face into a supercilious sneer. "You really care for him, don't you?"

The lieutenant closed his eyes and swallowed.

"He was confused and frightened because he was a stupid coward," the kiani said. "You can't blame Kahsheel for that. But I do blame you for your servant's actions. He killed Kahsheel. Traditionally, a murderer is immolated on the pyre of his victim. "

Uyal hesitated for effect. Sulu hesitated because he was trying to remember the salient facts that would disprove Uyal's accusation.

"According to tradition, a kiani should be bound with fine cord." Uyal picked up a length of rope. "I'm afraid you'll have to make do with the hemp I brought for your servant, Sulu."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Once freed, Davies first instinct had been to break free of her companions and make her way out of the tunnels. On the whole, she was glad she hadn't. She still didn't have the faintest idea where she was. From the muttered conversation of the servant women, she gathered that they were planning to take a devious route to the Director's quarters through those same tunnels, thus avoiding observation and questions. There they hoped to either find Chekov or some clue to his whereabouts — not that they seemed to have much doubt about his whereabouts. The purpose of the entire expedition seemed to be to humor Davies.

Davies was content to be humored for a change. She was thoroughly tired of being a prisoner. Once, to test if this was still the case, she'd let a good bit of distance fall between herself and the servant women. They had unconcernedly turned a corner and vanished — along with all illumination. After that, Davies had kept close.

The women moved surely through the maze of tunnels, seeming to change direction at random. Their lamps smoked worryingly, as if on the verge of expiring. They kept their conversation to the minimum, in subdued tones.

'I'm going to spend the rest of my life in these infernal tunnels,' Davies thought glumly. 'Maybe this is a trick. I have no idea where they're taking me. Maybe they're leading me straight back to…'

As if to confirm this pessimistic line of thought, Dollu suddenly extinguished her lamp and seized Davies. She put a huge hand over the ensign's mouth and pushed her into a large crevice in the wall. The blue woman quickly doused her flame and joined them.

"Take most quiet, little Feddie sister," Dollu whispered as they crouched there. The servant woman kept her hand in place so that Davies didn't have much choice.

It was only a moment before Davies too could hear footsteps and see the pale glow of a steadily approaching light source. It was rather uncomfortable to kneel on jagged rock, wrapped in Dollu's long arms, but the ensign didn't dare struggle for fear of making a noise that would betray them to whoever it was.

As the light and footsteps drew steadily nearer, Davies strained to get a clear angle of vision into the corridor. The blue woman blocked most of the view, but by craning her neck, the ensign was able to see enough to recognize the first figure to pass .

'Now, what's he up to?' she puzzled.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"No sign of anyone, Madame Director," the low caste reported.

"I'm sure I heard something." The Director frowned as she unlocked the door to the data retrieval room. "No matter. Stay vigilant. I won't be long."

Chekov looked up as she entered — or tried to. His eyes would only go about as far as her knees. He pulled his hands to one side so that she wouldn't see that he'd managed to loosen his bonds.

This plan didn't work well at all. His captor strode immediately to the column where she'd re-tied him while she searched for intruders and jerked his wrists up.

"I see you've been busy while I was gone," she said pulling the ropes tight once more. "Didn't I tell you not to attempt anything of this sort?"

"Ow!" the ensign complained as the hemp bit into his wrists.

"Disobey me again and I'll have someone give you good reason to cry out," she threatened as she untethered him from the column. "You seem to be getting progressively more uncooperative. The peeva shouldn't be wearing off this fast, unless…" She pulled him forward by the rope around his neck and tilted his head up. "Unless someone managed to slip you a little kvurr at the banquet."

Chekov tried to pull away from her. The light was unbearable.

She shook him. "Is that what happened? Answer me."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied squeezing his eyes shut.

"Filthy servants," she swore. "Damn their ignorant, degenerate ways. Still, they didn't give you quite enough to do you much good, did they, young man?"

"No," Chekov admitted. His head felt like it was full of cotton wool. Painfully fuzzy. This situation was far too complex for him to grasp. He only knew that he wanted desperately to get away.

"Come then," she said, taking hold of the rope around his neck and leading him back to the computer that she'd hastily deactivated when she heard what had sounded like a scuffle very nearby. "We must begin again."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Sulu clamped his jaw hard shut on the gag in his mouth as another agonizing cramp seized his left leg. The space under the platform that held Kahsheel's coffin was hot and airless, but the worst discomfort came from lying on his back with his hands bound securely behind him. He was sandwiched too tightly between the shelf on which he lay and the slats that supported the casque to get any leverage and move. His only hope, he'd decided very quickly, was to become allergic to the massed floral displays and sneeze very loudly and insistently. So far, that plan had not worked.

Annoyingly, the effects of the dream peddler's poison seemed to have diminished to a mere splitting headache and severe nausea, so Sulu couldn't even console himself with the thought he'd be dead before he entered the flames.

Perhaps Uyal didn't really mean to kill him. Although if he did, the method he'd chosen was certainly in character for a kiani — merely maneuvering the victim into position and waiting for circumstances to do the rest. Maybe the engineer would relent. Maybe, when the funeral was over…

Something stirred in the lieutenant's memory. Something about when the funeral hour was over, or when the funeral hour was past… One of the slaves had talked about Datvin keeping them hostage until the funeral was over. Did that mean that Datvin expected something to happen at the funeral? Or that the slaves expected something? Was it the sort of something that would operate in Sulu's favor?

Reviewing his options, the lieutenant decided to give prayer a proper test run.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Johnson, Datvin, and the Manager's guards had made their way down the long corridors to the control complex largely unhindered. It seemed almost everyone was out of the building by now.

Datvin slid to an undignified halt at a turning and retreated. "She's posted guards."

"Does she really have Chekov?" Johnson demanded, unholstering his phaser. "Are you sure of that?"

"Yes. Someone has tried to disguise him as a Kibrian, but I saw her with him."

Johnson reminded himself that he was not worrying about the Prime Directive for the next hour or so. He leaned around the corner phaser in hand.

"Come on, then," he said, turning back to his companions after a few seconds. "I've taken care of them."

"Just like that? You killed them?" Datvin sounded more scandalized than distressed.

"No. I stunned them. And I'm probably going to be in quite enough trouble for just that. Could I have my tricorder, please?"

"Is there anyone in there?"

Johnson found the sensation of the Manager leaning over his shoulder most off-putting. "Yes. I get two readings… one Human."

"Is she armed?"

"What? I can't necessarily tell that. No phasers, but…"

Datvin turned his back impatiently. He addressed his guards. "Enter with caution."

"…clearance, level three," the computer was saying as they entered. "Confirm identity."

The Director had her back to them and didn't appear to have heard their entry. She was more intent on forcing Chekov's hand onto a scan plate to satisfy the computer's request. 

"I will have you beaten within an inch of your miserable existence if you do not cease this stubbornness," she threatened the bound and struggling ensign.

Datvin held Johnson back as the computer dispassionately responded, "Confirmed."

"List all files coded to Johnson, Ensign, USS _Enterprise_ ," the Director commanded, then edged backwards as if she expected fireworks.

Chekov covered his eyes in anguish as the screen brightened with a seemingly endless catalog of the files generated by the meteorologist.

"Delete all," the Director intoned.

"Kiriar." Datvin released his hold on Johnson and strode forward. "Kindly explain your presence here and your actions."

The Director turned away from the computer with deliberate dignity. A smile settled on her narrow red lips. "Mister Johnson. It appears that you lied to me. Your files are not coded at all."

Johnson ignored her and went straight to Chekov. He laid his tricorder on the desk and began to gently untie the awful rope from around his fellow officer's neck. "Are you okay, Pavel? What's she done to you? Did she give you more peeva?"

Chekov parted his eyelids, struggling against their burden of synthetic skin and giving up while his eyes were still narrow slits that seemed to be all pupil. "Johnson?"

The meteorologist threw the leash aside with a grunt of disgust. "Don't move. Let me check you out."

When Johnson started to untie Chekov's wrists, the ensign gripped him urgently. "Selrideen…" he said as if trying to compress paragraphs into that single word. "Must… find…"

"I must find Selrideen?" Johnson prompted, when it seemed that statement seemed to have used up Chekov's supply of initiative for the moment.

"Funeral…" the ensign continued with great difficulty. "…Station will… Kahsheel's funeral… Tell him…"

"What are you trying to tell me, Pavel?" Johnson said. "Try to concentrate."

"My head," the ensign groaned, putting his hands over his eyes. "Sulu… dead…"

"What?" Datvin strode over and dragged Chekov upright in the chair. "What do you mean by that? Is Mr. Sulu dead? Has the Director had him killed?"

"I most certainly have not," the Director contradicted forcefully. She was flanked by Datvin's guards, but one could hardly say they'd taken her into custody. "At the time I found this young man, I believed the lieutenant to be dead. That is why I took this servant into my custody."

"And you did not see fit to inform him otherwise when you saw that the lieutenant was quite alive?" Datvin asked.

"No," the Director replied brazenly. "He is difficult enough to control as it is."

"Tell us more about Selrideen," the Manager ordered, shaking Chekov for emphasis. "What about him? What about Kahsheel's funeral?"

"You'll need to give him more peeva if you want him to answer questions," the Director advised. "A more stubborn and contrary servant would be hard to imagine."

"Shut up!" Johnson snapped. "Both of you, shut up."

He pushed Datvin away and took Chekov's hands into his, carefully untying the ensign's abraded wrists. "Listen to me, Chekov. What about Selrideen? Do you want me to tell him something about Kahsheel's funeral?"

Chekov nodded. "Station… destroyed…"

"The station is to be destroyed during Kahsheel's funeral?" Johnson speculated, his pulse rate rising.

"During funeral…" the ensign confirmed. "Kahsheel's funeral…" Chekov looked up into Johnson's eyes piteously. "She's dead… Also dead."

"I'm afraid that Kahsheel is dead, but Lieutenant Sulu is not dead. Do you understand that, Pavel? The Director was just telling you that to trick you, to control you."

The ensign lowered his head mournfully. "My fault…"

"No, it wasn't… Look, never mind about that now," Johnson said impatiently. "What about the Station? How is it going to be destroyed?"

"Explosives… in the tunnels…"

"Where exactly?" Datvin demanded.

"In the tunnels," the ensign repeated. "Not sure…"

"Who or what is this Selrideen?" Datvin asked Johnson. "Is that a code name of some sort? Who is going by the name of Selrideen?"

"The dream peddler," one of the Manger's guards volunteered.

"Oh, him." Datvin seemed disappointed. "I don't think he's involved with this. He's just a mountebank of the worst sort."

"Selrideen," Chekov insisted, with dreamy determination, "…raises the dead…"

"You weren't ever dead, Chekov," Johnson said. "You told me that yourself. It was just a coma…"

"Not me." Chekov shook his head. "The birds… were dead.… I saw… Datvin, your office… the blood… the blood in my mouth…."

"I have no idea what you're babbling about," the Manager replied, his eyes narrowing. "Who is behind this plan, Chekov? Is it Mras? Who's manipulating him?"

The ensign lowered his head. "Don't know."

"You do know, young man," the Manager contradicted imperiously. "That much is abundantly clear. And I shall take steps to make certain that you tell us. Guards…"

"Now, hold on." Johnson stood up, putting himself protectively between the ensign and Datvin's men. "He's drugged. I'm sure that if he does know anything, and if it's appropriate that he tell you what he knows, he'll do so. I believe something called kvurr…"

"You're very knowledgeable about illegal Kibrian drugs, Mr. Johnson," Datvin sniffed.

"I didn't choose to be, sir." 

-o- -o-o-o- -o-


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Engineer Kahsheel is given a rather eventful funeral and a significant family tie is revealed.

There was a long moment as the Station Manager weighed his options. "Very well," he finally relented with obvious reluctance. He motioned to one of his guards. "Fetch some kvurr and a jug of hot water. The Medical Officer will have some. Say it's on my authority."

"Yes, sir." 

As the first guard hurried to obey his superior's command, Datvin's critical eye settled on the second officer. He glanced briefly at the former Director, then appeared to come to a decision. "You go too, Mazt. Ask for exact instructions on the dosage. Tell the Medical Officer the kvurr is for a Human — the one he so recently pronounced dead — if that's of any significance." 

The guard looked uneasily over at the former Director. 

"Go on," his superior ordered. 

"Yes, sir." 

As the second guard followed the first out the door, Chekov gripped the meteorologist's arm. "Something's going to happen," the Russian warned as coherently as he was capable. "Something… not good." 

Johnson wasn't sure if the ensign was still talking about explosives in the station or was just as suspicious as he was of Datvin's decision to dismiss his guards. "Calm down, Chekov. Everything's going to be all right now. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you." 

"Actually," the Director crossed her arms, "he belongs to me now, Mister Johnson. I will determine what does and does not happen to him." 

"But Sulu isn't dead…" Johnson protested. 

"That has yet to be demonstrated," the Director replied coolly. "Also, this one was discovered trying to conceal his mark of ownership…." 

"Oh." Datvin nodded gravely as if this constituted an inarguable claim. 

Chekov rubbed his gloved hand nervously. "Johnson?" 

"I don't understand," the meteorologist said. 

"Disguising, altering, or concealing a brand is a criminal act, Ensign," the Director informed him. "It is furthermore the act of a runaway slave. The state has the option of taking possession of runaways. I exercised my option as Director and added him to my household — hopefully to provide him with a more stable and structured working environment and thus prevent the sort of misbehavior for which he has acquired a reputation." 

"She's within her rights," Datvin confirmed. 

"Wait, wait," Johnson objected, he head spinning with how easily the Kibrians had managed to outmaneuver him again. "How can she..? She's a criminal." 

"That's slander, Mister Johnson," the Director said, sounding outraged. 

"A premature conclusion, Johnson. The former director is a kiriar accused of misconduct," Datvin clarified. "The question of criminal culpability is for the magistrates to decide. Until the matter is brought before the proper authorities, it is improper to assume her guilt." 

"Oh, I see," Johnson replied angrily. "So she and her family are free to commit mayhem on a planetary scale and walk around scot-free, while Chekov…" 

"..Is a runaway slave," the Director countered, "suspected of at least one murder in addition to…" 

"Please, please!" the Station Manager interrupted, holding his hands up impatiently. "Despite the strong emotions this young man seems to engender, we have more important matters to discuss than the disposition of one slave." 

"But..!" Johnson began. 

"I'm sure that when and if Lieutenant Sulu is found, he can successfully challenge the State's claim on Chekov," Datvin assured him. "In the meantime, we are all in a position of some delicacy. Each of us is faced with obstacles in obtaining our goals. I desire the continued safe operation of this station and the completion of the specifications for the Eenos project — including the appointment of a competent contractor for the construction phase." 

Johnson forced himself to take a deep breath in through his nose. "The Director… I'm sorry, the ex-Director, wiped all my files" he replied, pulling out a chair for Chekov — at a pointed distance from both the Kibrians. "There's no way we can duplicate all our work in the time available…" 

"Surely you had copies…" 

"Yes, but they were coded to me too," Johnson answered as he guided the other ensign into the seat, hoping Chekov would have the presence — or absence — of mind not to contradict him. "She's wiped everything." 

Datvin looked as if he didn't really believe this, but being an administrator rather than a computer expert, he abandoned that line of attack. "Much of your work here was setting up and refining our systems. That still stands, surely." 

"Yes. I'm not saying we have to start from scratch…" 

"Then how long…" 

"Do either of you know where Lieutenant Sulu is?" Johnson asked pointedly. 

Datvin crossed his arms with a self-righteous air and looked at the ex-Director who crossed her arms and gave him a similar look in reply. 

"Or Ensign Davies?" 

Again, neither Kibree seemed willing to admit to any knowledge in front of the other. 

"If you were to find both of them, and if you were to allow me to use Chekov in a technical capacity rather than as a… a…" Johnson broke off and looked down at his fellow ensign. Chekov was sitting with his head bowed and his hands folded — his manner distressingly docile. "Well, with all four of us — and all the help we need from the station staff — we might just get things back together before we have to leave. If the Station is still standing at that point, of course…" 

Datvin nodded approvingly. "Director…" 

"Since I am no longer Director," she replied icily, "the problems of running this station are no longer any concern of mine…" 

"The files you were trying to destroy are still in the computer," the Manager pointed out. 

The Kibrian's eyes narrowed. "Datvin, you're a fool. Think this through. If word of this … situation gets out, it won't harm only me… Mine is not the only family that will suffer discredit. I warn you, the information stored here has the potential to generate a scandal of such proportion that it cannot fail to cause the government to fall. If the lower castes hear of it — and if they understand it — they will surely riot. Violently. Possibly with murderous intent. Think of the legal proceedings alone that it will set into motion…" 

The last elicited a pained sigh from the Manager. "Of course, I do realize…" 

"Do you?" she asked harshly. "Consider. There are controls and checks built into the Vaytha. Quotas. While there are those who passed who perhaps technically should have been placed in a lower caste, so equally there were others who were erroneously failed." 

The look on Datvin's face made Johnson appreciate for the first time how difficult it must be to live under such a system. An individual's whole life depended on the results of one battery of tests. The very frightening thought that those tests were rigged could undermine a Kibrian's sense of reality. If one could no longer trust the testing process, one no longer knew who one was in relation to society. 

Sensing weakness, the Director pressed her advantage. "Manipulation of results might not have been limited to members of my family. Who knows who was passed over and who was wrongfully pushed forward?" 

"Those who committed the deed," Datvin accused coldly. 

"Yes." She smiled. "And the computer knows. Are you so sure of your worthiness and the worthiness of those close to you that you can harbor the illusion that your life will be unaffected by the information in this machine?" 

The Kibree's face was unreadable. 

"Imagine the upheaval," she continued, "the claims for compensation, the undermining of our entire social structure… We would be plunged into absolute anarchy… and at a time when we are seeking to convince the Federation that our system is stable and workable…" 

"I think we'd be more impressed if it was equable and capable of evolving to meet changing needs." 

Both Kibree turned to look at Johnson as if he were an annoying noise. The ensign realized with a sinking heart that the Director's rhetoric had worked. Through her dire predictions, she had forged an alliance with the Manager. 

"This can be settled to your advantage also," Datvin pointed out. "You will assist the Director in wiping the relevant files…" 

"Now, hold on. How are you going to explain the loss of all the files?" 

The Kibrians smiled like one organism. 

"We will blame Chekov," Datvin told him as if this was a course of action that would have been obvious to an idiot child. "That will be confirmed by the computer log. Will it not?" 

Johnson swallowed. They had a point there. It was going to be his word against theirs… and the computer's. The logs would contain only the commands distilled from what the Director had said, not a recording of her voice. 

The Director smiled, quite pleasantly. "The folly of allowing a left… a servant to have access to the data processors will be recognized by all."

"Now, with the assistance of your tricorder, Mister Johnson," Datvin said, regaining his customary crisp and businesslike manner, "we will locate your colleagues and any explosives or weapons within the Station. Although I think it might be wiser to do that in the reverse order." 

"I can't let you use Star Fleet equipment." 

"Yes." Datvin nodded his head gravely. "Of course. I understand your problem. Well, the Station is evacuated. Apart from Lieutenant Sulu and Ensign Davies. Oh, and the three of us." 

"Four," Johnson corrected, trying to ignore the implicit threat. "You're forgetting Chekov." 

"And you're forgetting that Chekov belongs to me," the Director pointed out. 

"Oh, yes," Datvin agreed. "You do have legal possession of the young man. I had almost forgotten. What do you intend to do with your servant, Madam?" 

"Oh, I don't know." She shrugged. "I may leave him here. He's hardly worth saving." 

At the sound of his name, the navigator had looked up. He remained silent, but his brown eyes had gone rather wide with apprehension. 

"Mister Johnson?" Datvin prompted. 

"Let me think," Johnson snapped. 

"We may not have much time," Datvin pointed out mildly. 

The various options were going round in the meteorologist's head like the tumblers in a fruit machine. After a moment they all lined up. "Do you still consider Chekov to be responsible for Kahsheel's death?" 

When Kahsheel's name was spoken, Chekov bowed his head in a rather ill-timed demonstration of guilt. 

Datvin paused. "Perhaps not. The method was traditional, the poison local. I hardly think he'd have had the opportunity to acquire it, or the knowledge to use it." 

"Good. You'll make your security officers aware of your opinion, won't you?" 

"That could be done." 

"All right, I'll help you," Johnson began warily. "But only if the following four conditions are met. First, you give me Chekov." 

Datvin sniffed noncommittally. "And the other conditions?" 

"Once the Station is secure, Chekov remains either with me or in my room at all times and Station Security makes sure no one goes in my quarters without my permission." 

"That would not be objectionable," Datvin agreed. 

"And thirdly all our equipment is to be returned to us — that's four phasers and the tricorder — once the search is finished." When there was no overt objection to this condition, Johnson forged on. "And lastly, certain people are to be banned from the Station until we leave. Uyal, Gebain, Driant and Mras… Oh, and Selrideen." 

The Director widened her narrow eyes. "Are those five supposed to be part of some conspiracy against you?" 

"They've been less than helpful," Johnson told her stiffly. "Well, do we have a deal, Mister Datvin?" 

The Manager turned expectantly to the former Director. 

She took a moment to consider the matter, pursing her lips thoughtfully as she sized the _Enterprise's_ navigator up, letting her eyes travel slowly from the top of his cropped head to the tips of his sandled toes. 

"I hope the two of you appreciate the magnitude of the sacrifice I'm making here," she said lightly as she picked up a clerical recorder off the top of a row of cabinets. "You can have no idea how long it's been since I've owned an attractive little left-handed boy… Transfer of property: the servant known as Chekov is hereby transferred from my ownership to the ownership of… of Ensign Johnson of Star Fleet. The price is agreed…" She looked at Johnson as if evaluating the cut of his uniform. "The price is agreed at one turkana seed." 

"What?" Johnson asked, not at all appreciative of the Kibrian's levity. 

"A tradition, Mister Johnson," the Director said as she stepped over to her former servant and pulled off the glove that covered his right hand. "Effectively it means nothing is to be paid." 

"A contract requires a price," Datvin explained. 

The Director tilted Chekov's chin up and towards Johnson. "Your new master," she said, then added ironically, "Obey him as you have obeyed me." 

"Johnson," Chekov said slowly, blinking in disbelief as dim comprehension dawned on him, "You've… you've… You've purchased me?" 

"Well… I… I…" Johnson felt his cheeks go suddenly and violently red. Despite the fact he knew his motives were practical not personal, the meteorologist couldn't meet those questioning brown eyes. "It… It's a long story, Chekov… Oh, gosh, is this ever going to make into a weird log entry." 

-o- -o- -o- 

"Kiree!" Dollu's friend stepped forward out of the niche where Davies and her companions had hidden themselves.

Davies grabbed a handful of the blue woman's robe and lost it again in a sudden reversal of their roles. 

Selrideen, at the head of a column of porters bearing wooden crates, stopped abruptly. There were stifled gasps as several of the line of slaves collided with those in front of them, but nothing was dropped. "Take ease, little sister," the dream peddler reassured the servant woman. He stepped forward and held out a hand to Davies. "And you too, Sister Day-Veez." 

"We need your help," Davies blurted out. "If you're going to blow up the station…" 

"Destroy the Station? My palace? No. That is not our intention. However, this palace will fall to make way for yet a greater one." 

Davies suppressed the urge to roll her eyes at his predictably pseudo-religious mumbo-jumbo. "Well, whatever you're doing…" 

"We must be on our way." 

"Wait!" She grasped the dream-peddler's robe. "The Director has taken Chekov. I don't know what she intends to do to him…" 

In the flickering torch light, it looked like Selrideen smiled. "Perhaps something comparable to what you intended to do him if he was to fall under your power?" 

Davies closed her eyes and grimaced as she realized that: a) Yes, everyone on the whole damned planet was aware of what she'd said to Kahsheel and what she'd done that night in Kahsheel's quarters and that b) No, they were never going to let her live it down. "Okay, okay… Yes, something to that effect — or much worse. I'm still not convinced that she won't kill him." 

"Never fear, sister. She is still in the building and her car has not left. Therefore, he is still here. I think she is too busy just now to devote her energies to harming a poor servant." 

"Well, maybe not now…" 

"I'm afraid this is not a matter I can assist in at any rate," the Kibrian interrupted. "I couldn't interfere." 

"How would you be interfering?" Davies demanded angrily. "You live here." 

"Yes. I live here. So I cannot interfere with you, who do not. No, we must live our own lives. We each have our own story to tell. Come, sisters." He beckoned the two servant women into his line. 

"Wait a bloody minute," Davies said, as her eyes adjusted to the light and she was better able to make out the burdens carried by the long line of servants. "Some of them are carrying explosives! I thought you said you weren't going to blow up the Station." 

"That's not my intent," Selrideen confirmed. 

"Then where are you going with those?" 

"To fulfill our destiny," he answered motioning the line forward. 

"Hold on," she exclaimed, stepping in front of him. "I can't let you go without more of an explanation than that." 

This time she could clearly make out the dream-peddler's smile. "You don't have the power to stop us." 

Davies looked at the seemingly endless line of Kibrian faces behind him and realized how small and insignificant one lone unarmed Human must seem in comparison. "Well, you can't leave me down here alone." 

"If you come with me, you come with me," the dream peddler said severely, as if that meant anything. 

Davies cursed the translator. "I just want to get out of these tunnels." 

"Of course," Selrideen agreed comfortingly. "We all want to get out of these tunnels. And there are many ways out but I cannot say which is the door you should go through." 

"Can you for one moment stop talking in riddles?" she snapped. 

"Very well." He pointed to his left. "That stair leads to the pantry beside the dining hall. And that…" pointing right "…leads to the anteroom to the Director's office. But it might be wiser if you were to go through the arch at the end of this passageway, straight ahead, turning neither sunways nor against the sun, then choose the fourth sunways passage and go up the narrow stair at its end." 

"And where will that take me?" she asked, translating 'sunways, clockwise, turn right…' before she lost the thread of his directions. 

"Into Lieutenant Sulu's quarters. But mind your head. Give her a lamp, someone." 

"Take ease, sister Feddie," Dollu and her friend called, falling into the column. 

"But… but where's he taking you?" she objected. 

"To Selrideen," echoed back to her as the porters vanished into the blackness. 

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"Just a little more, Pavel," Johnson coaxed, holding a sour-smelling cup of red liquid to his fellow ensign's lips.

"It's bitter," Chekov complained. 

"You don't want to give him much more, Johnson," the ex-Director said. She was standing next to Datvin as he spread a huge, slightly yellowed plan of the station on the desk in his office. 

"Why not?" 

"It might kill him," she informed him dispassionately. "He's already had at least one dose." 

'Now's a great time to tell me that,' Johnson thought, closing his eyes in irritation. "Are you feeling any better, Chekov?" 

The ensign scowled at him. "No!" 

"Well, maybe you should lie down for awhile, okay?" 

"No," the Russian repeated, as unreasoningly uncooperative as a two year old. 

"Be firm with him, Mister Johnson," Datvin advised, weighing down the edges of his map with ornamental paper weights. "Or else he'll not respect you." 

"Thank you, but I think I can…" 

"Don't know what you're doing…" Chekov was saying, shaking his head from side to side. "Purchasing me… Don't know what you're doing…" 

"Pavel," Johnson began, his patience beginning to wear thin, "will you..?" 

"Where's Sulu?" the Russian asked accusingly. 

"I don't know. Look, you need to…" 

"No." The navigator shook his head adamantly. "Don't know what you're doing…" 

"I just think you should…" 

"No." 

"Just…" 

"No." 

"Would you shut up for a minute?" Johnson snapped. That at least seemed to get his fellow ensign's attention. 

"Yes, sir," Chekov mumbled automatically, lowering his eyes. 

Johnson took a pillow from nearby and put it on the arm of the chair Chekov was seated in. "I want you to put your head down and try to sleep… Right now, Mister!" 

He wasn't sure if it was Kibrian or Star Fleet discipline that took over as Chekov obediently leaned against the arm of the chair and closed his eyes, whispering a final, "Yes, sir." 

The meteorologist cleared his throat before turning back to his Kibrian companions. "He's not fully recovered yet," he explained as he joined them at the Manager's ample desk. "He'll be more rational when he wakes up." 

The Kibrians made no comment, but silently exchanged "I remember my first servant" type glances with each other. Johnson tried to ignore this along with the burning in his cheeks as he bent over the map. "Now what do we have here?" 

The map made no attempt to chart the underground passages, although some exits and entrances were marked. The one Davis had escaped through, for example, was missing, if Johnson was interpreting the rather alien symbols correctly. 

"This is an example of the material they are likely to be using, if their intention is one of murderous destruction." Datvin laid down a sample of the cheesy white explosive for Johnson to examine. "A theft of several containers has been reported from a local quarry. One might question whether it was made available, rather than stolen, of course." 

The former Director cleared her throat. "I think the ensign should concentrate on finding the explosive for us. The investigation of its origins will be an internal matter." 

Datvin frowned. "Will you be able to detect it from above ground?" 

"I should," Johnson reported, holding his tricorder a few inches away from the sample, then at arm's length. 

"Then my men can simply break through from above and remove it," the Manager decided. "That will be very much quicker and safer than attempting to search in the passages." 

"You say safer, but we've no idea when the explosion is supposed to take place," Johnson pointed out. "Or how big it will be. How much explosive was stolen?" 

The Manager shook his head. "How much is not precisely known. Enough to do considerable damage certainly. When is… well, it is predictable. Engineer Kahsheel was well connected. Her funeral will be more restrained than it might have been, in other circumstances…" He shot a disapproving look at Chekov on the other side of the room. "… but there will be representatives of government and many kiriar from important families. The funeral must be the target." 

"And where will that happen?" Johnson asked, looking back at the plan. 

"The main ceremony will take place here…" Datvin indicated a large hall that Johnson had never had reason to enter. "Her remains will be cremated in a chamber below the hall." 

"When is the ceremony supposed to start?" 

The Manager glanced at his timepiece. It consisted of a large screen which displayed a stylized picture of a traditional Kibrian water clock. "In a little more than an hour. But I must know within not more than half of that time whether the building is safe, or I shall be forced to cancel the ceremony." 

"Perhaps it would be easier if you simply went ahead and cancelled it anyway." 

"No!" Datvin coughed, as if to suggest that his outburst had been a mere nervous spasm. "To do so would be a virtual admission that disorder has taken hold." 

Johnson picked up the tricorder. "I think I can perform an adequate sweep of the station in less than the time available, just. Provided there are no pockets of building materials that are impervious to sensor emissions. I hope, sir, that your forces of disorder aren't relying on you reacting in this way." 

"Yes," Datvin agreed reluctantly. "Quite. Perhaps it would be advisable if you had this now, in case anyone attempts to obstruct you." The Manager crossed to an elaborate wrought-iron screen and unlocked it with one of the keys on his belt. From the space behind it he produced one of the team's phasers. "I've already arranged for a dozen security guards to accompany you." 

Johnson accepted the weapon, remaining silent about the one he already had in his possession. He watched as Datvin re-locked the safe. "Won't you be accompanying us, Manager?" 

"No, I… I think not. I'll only slow you. I must organize the staff so that the Station can return to normal as speedily as possible once you've pronounced it safe." 

Johnson frowned. If Datvin didn't think they had much hope of success and wanted to eliminate the only certain survivors from the Federation team, he was making all the right moves. 

But on the other hand, if Datvin wanted him dead, there were surer ways of achieving that. The meteorologist nodded. "Okay. I think I'd better get started." 

He folded the plan in such a way that he could easily refer to any part of it and turned to go. As he looked up he was suddenly confronted with the sight of Chekov curled up peacefully in Datvin's big chair. 

"Oh, don't worry about him." When the Manager snapped his fingers, his two guards took positions either side of the sleeping ensign. "I'll see he's kept quiet while you're gone." 

"I'm sure you would," Johnson agreed. He gently but firmly pushed one of the guards aside and shook the Russian's arm. "Come on, Pavel. Wake up. Here we go again." 

-o- -o-o-o- -o- 

There were only three passages turning right off the dead end corridor beyond the arch. Davies sat down, put her lamp on the ground beside her and bit her lip to stop herself screaming. "How could I have been so stupid? Why the hell didn't I just follow them? What could they have done about it?"

It was quite possible that none of the stairs the dream peddler had mentioned existed at all. Come to think of it, such a sudden abundance of ways out of the catacombs was far too good to be true. 

Had Dollu and her friend known what Selrideen was up to? Had they cynically abandoned her, or were they, at least, acting in good faith? 

"Bloody hypocritical canting mountebank," she said bitterly. "He goes on and on because I teased Chekov a bit. What the hell was he up to down here?" 

"Sister?" 

She knocked the lamp over, extinguishing it, and pulled herself into one of the three right-hand passages, but whoever had spoken had a lamp of his own. As the Kibree came towards her, she was greatly relieved to recognize Nith. 

"I thought you might get lost." He picked her lamp up, re-lit it carefully from his, then returned it to her. "We are underground. Therefore the sun moves in the opposite direction…" 

"What?" 

"Well, obviously, or how would it rise on the other side of the world the following morning?" 

"I… uh, I see. Thank you." She reviewed her instructions yet again. If she'd reversed the course she'd taken that meant she now had to take the fourth passage on the left and… "You wouldn't come with me, would you?" 

Nith paused only momentarily to look over his shoulder. "Of course." 

"Do you know where Selrideen was taking the others?" 

The Kibrian nodded. "To fulfil their destiny." 

Davies had vainly hoped for a more prosaic answer. "And you've decided to give up fulfilling your destiny just to give me directions?" 

"Not exactly," he said moving forward into the darkness. "I feel that my destiny lies elsewhere." 

-o- -o-o-o- -o- 

After the door closed behind Johnson, the Station Manager shook his head. "Should the Federation ever send representatives here again, I certainly hope they choose ones who have a little more experience in dealing with slaves."

"You should be thankful for their inexperience, Datvin," the ex-Director countered. "It is one of their few weaknesses we've been able to discover and successfully exploit." 

The Kibree looked down his nose at his former superior. "Your car still waits for you, Madam. I'm sure you would prefer to leave the Station as soon as possible." 

"Yes…" she answered slowly. "But I will need to return to my chambers briefly before I leave." 

"Of course. I'll assign an escort to accompany you." He smiled humorlessly. "As a courtesy." 

"Yes… Of course." She turned to leave, then paused in front of the massive door to the Manager's office. "Do you think Johnson knows more than he's saying?" 

"About what?" 

"About anything. What can Uyal, Driant, Gebain and… and the other two have in common?" 

"Nothing at all that I can imagine," Datvin replied, sitting down his desk and taking out a writing tablet. 

"But is there a clue there as to who is behind the plot to destroy this Station?" 

"If there is such a plot, Madam. We are giving ear to the words of hysterical servants, a drugged alien and various kiani who may have their own reasons for doing almost anything," he replied dismissively, then added casually, "From what Johnson says, Gall Albrikk is behind much of this." 

The former director paled. "What does he know of Albrikk?" 

"That the kiriar attempted some sabotage at the Alareen relay station earlier. According to Johnson, no damage was done. But I have not had any opportunity to verify that." 

The Director was silent for a moment. "When Johnson returns, you must let me know immediately," she said, turning again to leave. "I will need his assistance with the computers." 

"I have been reconsidering that," Datvin informed her as he made a note to himself. 

"But Datvin…" 

"As you mentioned before, there is the potential here for various legal complications. I intend to take advice on whether such proceedings might be to my advantage. In the meantime, perhaps you should leave the computer alone." He affected not to notice her scowl of rage. "I have taken the precaution of posting guards." 

"Manager, do you really expect to find yourself a kiriar after a lifetime spent demonstrating your incompetence as a kiani?" 

Datvin didn't answer. 

"Family is far more important than the Vaytha recognizes," she continued hotly. "If anything, what my kin have done proves this. Kibree of integrity and insight, in positions of leadership… You cannot measure leadership in children who can barely wield a spoon." 

"That is something the courts will decide." Datvin gestured her towards the door with his pen. "Now, if you will excuse me." 

The door slammed hard enough behind the ex-Director to overturn a small decorative ornament on the Manager's desk. 

"So obviously a low caste," he sniffed, righting it. "It's a wonder she was able to pass for otherwise as long as she did." 

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Davies let Nith lead the way but stayed close enough behind him that she had difficulty not bumping into him from time to time. The stairway was narrow, as Selrideen had said, and the hatch at its head would hardly open. It did, however, admit a welcome wash of warm air and pale daylight into the cramped space below. Nith extinguished his lamp and set it down on a ledge before squeezing through the gap.

Davies suddenly panicked that once outside he'd secure the hatch and leave her. She pushed forward, earning a kick in the face for her impatience. 

"Sister, my apologies." 

"Oh, it was my fault." She accepted his hand and let him pull her out from under what turned out to be Sulu's bed. "I can't believe I'm finally out of there." 

She glanced around the room, trying to determine whether any of her companions had been here since Datvin had forced her to leave. The computer was working again. Obviously power had been restored. She crossed over to the desk and typed in the password that would bring up any messages left by her colleagues. There were none dated later than two days previously. Communicators were her next thought. The requirements of the Prime Directive had forced the team to keep them locked up except when in use. The little wall safe gaped open and empty. Only then did her thoughts turn to paper but no one had used that method of recording their presence either. Everything else was as shipshape as a cadet's cabin. 

Nith watched her in silence. Looking at him, Davies realized that the Kibrian was one source of information she hadn't fully exploited yet… And he was apparently in the mood to be helpful. 

"Nith, could you answer some questions for me?" 

"Perhaps." 

"Do you have any idea at all where Lieutenant Sulu or Ensign Johnson are?" 

"No." 

"That cell I was locked in, there was someone else in there. Do you know who that was?" 

"It was Chekov." 

"It didn't look like Chekov. And Johnson told us Chekov was dead." 

"In Selrideen, all things are possible." 

"Yes, well." She wondered fleetingly whether to abandon this question and answer session. "Dollu said that the Director had got hold of Chekov. Was that before or after I saw him in the tunnels?" 

"After," Nith admitted. "I too saw him, at the kepir feast." 

Davies breathed a small sigh of relief. At least Chekov was no longer in the cell, then, and there was no need for her to go back into the tunnels to retrieve him. "Good. Do you know where she took him after the feast?" 

Nith looked most apologetic. "No. There was some confusion. One of the servants started a panic that the station was about to be destroyed and everyone tried to leave at once. I believe the Director took Chekov with her entourage, but I could not be certain." 

Dollu had obviously come to the same conclusion. There seemed to be a high probability that Chekov was with the Kibrian. Which left the question of where she would have taken him, and for what purpose… 

"Firebricks," Davies said, cutting short that train of speculation. "Mras was telling people to be careful in the tunnels because of firebricks. Did he mean explosives?" 

Nith nodded agreement. "Certainly. But there is no danger. Selrideen watches over all in his care." 

"He was removing the explosives when I met you in the tunnels just now?" 

The former kiani blinked as if he was having difficulty following her. "Yes. The servants were carrying the explosives away." 

"So there's no danger of the Station blowing up?" 

"This is Selrideen's Palace. Therefore he will preserve it." 

Davies thought she detected an additional capital H in there. 

"…In some form," Nith amended after a moment. 

"Look." Davies held up her hands as if they could shield her from any further outpouring of Kibrian mysticism. "Give me a yes or no answer — Were the slaves we saw collecting explosives to blow up this Station?" 

"No," her companion answered with gratifying clarity. 

"Then what are they going to do them?" 

"They go to …" 

"…Fulfil their destiny," Davies finished with him. "I shouldn't have pressed my luck.… All right, for the present, I'm not going to worry about Selrideen and his crew. Let's concentrate on people that are above ground. So, if I find the Director, I'll find Chekov… or if he's escaped from her, he'll have headed back to Sulu… or maybe Johnson. So I'd better concentrate on looking for Sulu. Sulu may still think Chekov is dead, so he'll be looking for me and Johnson. Johnson thinks Chekov is dead too, so he'll be looking for me and Sulu. Now, who's got the tricorder?" 

"I beg your pardon?" 

"It's a device that you can use to look for things that you can't see. If I had it, I could tell if there were any humans anywhere in the Station, and how many, and more or less in which room." 

Nith frowned. "Since you believe everyone is looking for you, apart from Chekov, surely your best strategy is simply to position yourself where they can see you. Provided you choose a public enough location, you should also then be safe from anyone who wishes to do you harm…" 

"Like who?" 

"Excuse me?" 

"Who wants to harm me?" 

"I don't know." 

"And anyway, if I'm standing in full view, then they'll have to show themselves to contact me and they may not want to do that. It's not that easy." 

"But they will at least know where you are and that you are safe." 

"I suppose so." After so long in the tunnels, Davies felt a rat-like reluctance to venture out into the open. 

"What would you prefer to do?" 

Davies sighed as she renewed her search for equipment. "Curl up in bed with a nice brandy and watch this mess sort itself out on the vid screen in my cabin." 

-o- -o-o-o- -o- 

"Come on, Chekov, stop sulking."

"I'm not sulking." Chekov folded the map while Johnson altered the scanning range on the tricorder for the next part of their search. The hallway they were searching was eerily empty despite the rather noisy presence of the compliment of armed guards accompanying them. 

"Look, I'm sorry I told you to shut up," Johnson said, pointing his tricorder at the floor and taking a test reading. "And I admit what I'm doing is questionable, but didn't anyone ever tell you that the worst decision you can make is no decision? I know the reasoning behind the Prime Directive, I agree with it. But when people turn it on its head and use it against us, against each other even… Well, all the advantages are on the Kibrian side here. The only thing I'm prepared to worry about any longer is keeping us all alive." 

"Then shouldn't we be looking for Sulu too?" Chekov pointed out in a tone that sounded a little peevish even to his own ears. He felt terrible. Every part of him ached. It wasn't helping matters that he'd awakened to find himself in the custody of his third owner in that many hours. 

"No, I agree with Datvin there." The meteorologist looked up at a noise in front of them, but it was only a single Kibrian hurrying down the passageway trying to balance what looked like a large carpet on his shoulder. "The explosives are the first priority." 

"You could set the tricorder to sweep for human readings on every tenth cycle…" Chekov argued, moving aside to allow the Kibrian a wide berth. 

"No, Chekov. I'm not willing to take the chance. Imagine the repercussions…" 

Johnson was interrupted when the man with the carpet stumbled into him. 

"Oh, excuse me," The Kibree apologized quickly righting himself. 

"No problem," Johnson said, brushing himself off. He turned to the guards and turned on his translator. "Hey, one of you help this man." 

Chekov got a peculiar sensation of _deja vu_ — as if he'd seen the scene happen before. 

"Imagine the repercussions," Johnson continued, deactivating his translator once more. "if I pronounce the Station clear and ten minutes later it blows up — with or without a full complement of Kibrian VIPs on board. If I do this, I have to do it properly." 

"Then let me go and look for him…" 

"No. I'm not letting you out of my sight." 

Chekov frowned mightily at this. "Mister Johnson, despite any sort of agreement you may think you have made with the Kibrians…" 

"How do you feel?" Johnson interrupted. "Any dizziness? Headaches?" 

"I'm fine," Chekov insisted despite the fact that he had a headache of truly epic proportions. "Despite.." 

"Do you need one of these?" The meteorologist offered him a small container of blue pills. 

Chekov closed his eyes and tried to ignore the way his mouth almost watered at the sight. "I'm… I'm… f-fi…" 

"Take one now," Johnson said, popping one blue piece of heaven into his fellow ensign's mouth, then closing the container and tucking it inside the navigator's livery. "And keep the box with you." 

"Johnson," Chekov fumed, although it was hard to feel angry while soothing waves of chemical balm spread through one's body, "Would you stop…" 

He suddenly didn't know how to finish the sentence. Stop taking care of me? Stop being concerned about me? Stop acting like you own me? Yes, that last one was it. 

"Look, Chekov," Johnson was already continuing. "You don't know what I had to go through to find you. I'm not splitting the team up again." 

"Johnson, we're wasting time. I am armed…" The meteorologist had slipped Chekov the spare phaser once they were out of sight of Datvin and the Director. "…And since I don't remember Lieutenant Sulu appointing you second in command…" 

"He didn't need to. The last time I saw him, we were both under the impression that you were dead. So I think we can assume that responsibility for this mission lies with me until we find him — or Ensign Davies, if you'd prefer to take orders from her?" 

Johnson smiled at the scowl on his fellow officer's face. 

"Okay then." The meteorologist turned on his translator and gestured to their escort. "We should turn right here." 

The guardsmen executed the turn into another corridor. Johnson followed them, eyes glued to the tricorder. 

Reduced to the status of reluctant map holder, Chekov brought up the rear. "Go to sleep. Wake up. Shut up. Take this pill," he muttered to himself. "As soon as my head clears a little…" 

He turned at the sound of a noise behind him, but it was only the Kibree with the carpet returning in the direction he'd come. 

'There's something familiar about that man,' the ensign thought. The carpet blocked the Kibrian's face, but the sound of the man's voice… While Chekov watched, the Kibrian abruptly altered his course to follow the party and dropped his burden. 

His face was as immediately recognizable to the ensign as was the phaser in the Kibree's hand. 

Chekov grabbed for his own weapon. "Joh..!" he managed to call out before the effects of the stun took him. 

-o- -o-o-o- -o- 

"Make sure there's no one in there," Davies whispered to Nith.

The Kibrian extinguished his lamp and carefully eased the door open. 

A tapestry hung across the doorway. Standing close to it, the ensign was able to peer through into the Director's apartment. The room was occupied. The Director sat regally on a great wooden settle, very upright and formidable. The Kibree with her had his back to the tapestry, but he was instantly recognizable nonetheless. 

"Mras," Davies breathed. "But no Chekov…" 

"The Federation officers are searching the Station for explosives," the Director was saying. "I suspect you're lying, but if you aren't, it makes no difference. Your scheming is about to be uncovered." 

"No interfering, she said. The Feddie uzhist…" 

"Don't use that kitchen language in here," the Director interrupted sharply. "And I don't care if they lied to you about their intentions. Listen to me, our family is about to be disgraced. Our society is about to be turned on its head. I hope you're not stupid enough to think some Magistrate will decide you were improperly assessed…" 

"I passed the Vaytha…" 

"I know." Her voice softened. "I know, Mras. You were always the clever one. But…" 

"And now you want to make use of my brains, sister." 

"I've done what I could for you, Mras. You were lucky to have a home here in the Station. Most families…" 

"Would have had me sent away and forgotten. I know. Instead you just ignored me. Until now…" 

"That is the way it is. I cannot change the world…" 

"And you wouldn't change it. Why should you?" 

The Director stood. "I don't have time for this. I know that you are involved in a conspiracy…" 

"I am not…" 

"You have been named, along with others." 

"Who named me? What others?" 

"Driant, Uyal…" 

"I took jewels from them. As I took jewels from you. But you all wanted the same thing so why shouldn't I?" 

"Have you no loyalty?" she demanded. 

"Only to me, sister." 

"Then answer this, for the sake of your health. What do you know about Driant, Uyal, Gebain and the one who calls himself Selrideen? 

"That whoever told you they were conspiring is mad — or drugged, perhaps. Was it Chekov?" 

She shook her head sadly at the dwarf. "You think the Federation would help you, don't you?" 

"They don't have slaves. All are equal…" 

"And of those who are here, how many of them would have been slaves, if they had such?" 

"Chekov and the pale one…" 

"For their left handedness? That's a mark of Selrideen. I don't think it means anything to them. But not one of them is stupid, or deformed, or even displeasing to look at — for their species. What happens to all those, Mras?" 

Davies suspected he was scowling, but she could only see that he fidgeted his feet. "I don't know." 

"They kill them, little brother. Before they are even born. That's why they have no slaves. They prefer to have machines serve them. So easy, isn't it, to preach equality, when everyone simply is equal to start with? I don't agree with either them or the dream peddler, but I've more respect for him than for them." 

"It makes no difference…" 

"I know. They won't help you. You can't appeal to their compassion, their hearts, or their purses. We are less than dust to them, but you and I are family, Mras. I know I've neglected you, but now…" 

"What do you want?" 

"I believe Johnson will have finished his search by now. But knowing you, you wouldn't have committed all your resources to just one plan. You'll have kept some of the explosives back. You will position them under the main computer unit…" 

"And if I won't…" 

"I believe Gebain is looking for you…" 

"I thought we were family…" 

"And that's why I offer you an alternative. Do as I wish, ensure the computer is destroyed. During the cremation would be best. And be wary. Datvin has posted guards…" From her expression, Davies read that the two of them were not impressed with the effectiveness of the station's security officers. "But I don't want anyone killed needlessly. Then I will arrange for you to go to my summer residence in the hills. No one need know you're there. 

Mras was shuffling his feet again. "You've broken promises before, sister." 

She shrugged. "What other choice do you have?" 

Davies stepped back into the darkness of the stairway and gently closed the door. "Why does she want the computer destroyed, Nith?" 

He answered softly, "To conceal something, I imagine." 

"You've no idea what?" 

"No." Just when Davies was about to curse the Kibrian's brevity, he continued, "It's rather old, although powerful. The loss of the computer itself would merely mean a few days work lost while a replacement was installed. It might even be a good thing for the Station, looked at overall…" 

Davies blinked at him for a moment. Despite the way he spoke the language, it was still a surprise to hear someone dressed like a servant speak like the kiani he had once been. 

"Uyal and his group were also out to destroy the computer. He was trying to make it look as if we — the Federation officers, I mean — were to blame…" 

"Yes. That makes sense then." Nith nodded. "Cracking two nuts in one hand. Uyal is in favor of investing in new data processing equipment. It irritates him that most people prefer to use our resources in other ways. It must be data that the Director wants to destroy." 

"But surely there's security backups?" she whispered as they descended back into the tunnels. 

"The main memory is triplicated. But no copies are held elsewhere. There's no provision for what she intends." 

"She was being blackmailed…" Davies stopped. If Nith didn't know that, it was no business of hers to tell him. Still, the time had come to turn the tables. "I think I should make a copy of the information. When did she say Mras should try to blow up the computer?" 

"During Kahsheel's cremation. All the kiani will be in the ceremonial hall gardens, attending the ceremony. The servants will…" He stopped. "She probably isn't overly concerned about the servants, but they'd have no reason to be near the computer installation. But how can you take a copy? You don't know which files are relevant." 

"Shouldn't we warn the servants? If Mras is planning…" 

"There will be very few servants in the Station, Miss Davies. Very few." 

"Well…" She felt she should ask him why that was, but to start warning people about Mras was as wrong as anything else they'd done so far. "Okay. I'll copy the lot. Can you get me back to my room?" 

"Of course, but each of the three archive units is the size of a… a bed. Do you plan to carry one away?" 

Davies had retrieved her lamp from where she'd left it at the foot of the stairs. She held it up to light Nith's way down the uneven steps. "Don't worry about that. I think I can set up a parallel streaming link and download it into my diary." 

There was a faint hiss as he re-lit his lamp using a primitive friction device. "She's right, isn't she?" 

"Who?" 

"The Director. We're so far beneath you… But Sulu let Chekov… He was prepared to let him die, rather than break our laws, or use your weapons against us. May I ask why?" 

"I wouldn't read anything too significant into it, Nith," Davies replied wearily. "You'll just have decided that our being here is a divine revelation and Chekov will finally snap and start phasering every kiani in sight. I've been tempted myself…" 

"But if he really did die…" 

"He didn't. It was just the effect of all the drugs and Kahsheel's brand of poison," she explained firmly — as much to herself as to the Kibrian. That had to be the explanation. Despite how strange things were capable of getting on Kibria, natural laws still applied just as they did elsewhere in the galaxy. "How long until the cremation?" 

Nith looked at her as if he was having difficulty making up his mind about something. "An hour, approximately. The ceremonies of remembrance will be brief, under the circumstances." 

"Then we'd better hurry." 

-o- -o-o-o- -o- 

The first thing that Chekov became aware of was the almost overwhelming scent of flowers surrounding him. He groaned as he tried to open his eyes. He'd thought he'd had a headache before. The one he had now was surely destined one for the record books.

"Awake so soon?" 

Chekov struggled to pry his heavy-lidded eyes open. He was lying on his back on some sort of table. His hands were tied securely behind him. A familiar face loomed above him. "Uyal…" 

"So you do remember me after all." The Kibrian smiled. "I assume you also recognize this?" 

The kiani pressed the muzzle of a phaser between the ensign's eyes. 

"Yes, sir," Chekov answered carefully. 

"You're a very naughty, naughty boy," the kiani scolded, tapping the bridge of the ensign's nose with the weapon to emphasize his words. "Don't you know servants are not allowed to have such things as this?" 

At this range, Chekov could clearly read the phaser's power setting. It was set to kill. He swallowed. "Yes, sir." 

"It's a very good thing I took the liberty of relieving Mister Johnson of his weapon before I came back for you, isn't it?" The phaser glinted in the single ray of afternoon sunlight falling into the dim room. "A marvelous weapon. It's a shame Mister Johnson was so careless with it. Don't you have such things as pickpockets in the Federation? I'd be quite suspicious if someone fell into me and took such a long time to recover his balance. Your Mister Johnson seemed to have other things on his mind, though, didn't he?" 

"Yes, sir," the ensign responded numbly, wondering what fate had befallen the meteorologist. 

"I must admit that I was a little surprised to find you with him," Uyal said, keeping the phaser against Chekov's forehead with one hand while he searched the pocket of his robe with the other. "Sulu told me you were dead. A mistake on his part, particularly since I've discovered his error too late to alter my plans. But I don't think I can let you off just because he's going to suffer a slight miscarriage of justice." 

"Where is Mister Sulu?" 

"Good servants don't ask questions, Chekov," the kiani reminded him. "They just do as they're told. Now open your mouth." 

'Marvelous,' the ensign thought as he complied warily. 'More peeva. Just what I need.' 

But what the kiani put in his mouth was a substance of an entirely different nature… Something much livelier… 

'Kepir?' The ensign immediately tried to spit out the oily wriggling shoots. 

"Now, now, none of that," Uyal said, holding the ensign's mouth shut. "You mustn't disdain our local delicacies, Chekov. Kepir is at its very best today. It doesn't keep well. The vital oils are so volatile. Within a few weeks, its potency is almost gone." 

Uyal was right. Even since this morning, the intensity of the kepir's aroma had diminished. The coiling shoots that gave it its astonishing mobility seemed withered too, mere remnants of their former vigor. "I'm sure someone has given you a little taste of this today. Or on second thought, perhaps you didn't need the encouragement. You were always a ready little beast. Is that what Kahsheel liked about you?" 

Chekov wished the kiani would move his hand a little so the ensign could bite it off. 

"I wouldn't bother with giving it to you myself, but I was afraid that knowing you were going to have your throat slit after I was done with you might diminish your… enthusiasm, shall we say?" 

The ensign tried to shake Uyal off, but the Kibrian kept his tight grip. 

"I'm glad you've not too gone with peeva to appreciate the… unpleasant side of what I intend to do with you," he said, his voice taking on an almost purring tone. "You see we Kibrians have a traditional belief that a murdered soul cannot rest until the person responsible is punished… You do want dear Kahsheel's soul to rest, don't you?" 

Uyal used his grip on Chekov's mouth to force the ensign to nod. 

"Then we'd best get on with your punishment, shouldn't we?" The Kibrian pressed the phaser against his victim's throat. "Swallow the kepir, Chekov. Now." 

Die quickly and cleanly now or slowly and horribly later — that didn't seem like much of a choice to the ensign. However, it didn't sound like Uyal had killed Sulu… at least not yet. He had to stay alive at least long enough to ascertain what had happened to the lieutenant. Also Uyal was obviously in a highly agitated state. Perhaps the kiani would make a mistake that would allow him the opportunity to escape. 

'If I'll even want to escape,' Chekov thought, feeling a familiar warm sensation as the kepir started to disintegrate in his mouth. He steeled himself with the thought that it had been the combination of peeva and kepir that had affected him so greatly earlier. The kepir alone wouldn't be a problem… perhaps. 

'Johnson,' Chekov thought as he swallowed the still weakly squirming shoots, 'Where are you?' 

-o- -o-o-o- -o- 

"Mister Johnson." Someone was gently slapping his face. "Johnson, wake up."

"Wha..?" The meteorologist opened his eyes to find the Station's Manager and Medical Officer looking down at him. "What happened?" 

Datvin frowned. "We were hoping you could elucidate on that, Ensign." 

Johnson groggily rose to his elbows. All around him were members of his Kibrian escort in various stages of recovery from the heavy stun they'd all been subjected to. All accounted for except… "Where's Chekov?" 

"He seems to be missing," the Medical Officer said, handing him an analgesic. 

"I sincerely hope, Mister Johnson," Datvin began severely, "that you weren't so foolish as to arm your servant?" 

"He… he wouldn't have fired on us," Johnson replied, hoping he sounded more certain than he felt. "I heard him call out and then… somebody hit us with a wide range stun. It wasn't Chekov. He was trying to warn us." 

The Manager didn't look convinced. 

"I'll see to the others," the Medical Officer said, excusing himself. 

"I want to question those standing nearest Mister Johnson's servant as soon as they're sufficiently recovered," Datvin ordered. 

"Of course." 

Johnson's hand went to an unexpectedly empty place at his side. "My tricorder… It's gone." 

"Yes. Whoever attacked you knew how to use a phaser and a tricorder. That would seem to narrow the field of suspects quite a bit, wouldn't it?" 

"I wouldn't say that, sir," Johnson replied, stubbornly resisting the mounting evidence of Chekov's guilt. "There's a lot of your people who would go to extraordinary lengths to get a hold of Federation technology. The normal operation of the two missing devices is not beyond the understanding or skill of the average kiani employed by this Station." 

"Well," was the Manager's only grudging response. "I hope you completed a significant portion of your search for explosives before this unfortunate incident?" 

Johnson dusted himself off. "I found no explosives of the kind you showed me in a 50 foot radius between here and your office." 

"So the Station is safe?" 

Johnson frowned. "I couldn't give a categorical answer to that question even if I'd finish my search. There may be explosives present that my instruments were not set to detect. And we did not reach the area where Kahsheel's funeral is supposed to take place." 

"I still suspect that this threat of explosion was nothing more than servant gossip." The Manager consulted his timepiece. "And it is now too late to cancel the ceremony. People will have already begun to re-enter the building…" 

"If we can't cancel the ceremony, is it possible that we could speed it up?" 

The Kibrian looked at him as though he were suggesting a desecration. 

"Begin and end the services ahead of schedule," Johnson clarified. "So we could re-evacuate the building." 

"Begin ahead of schedule…?" It took a moment for this alien concept to sink in for the Kibrian. "Hmmm… I suppose… It would be difficult to organize…" 

"Then we'd better get started now," Johnson said, rising. "I've got to find Chekov." 

"Don't worry about that, Mister Johnson," Datvin said, joining him. "We'll all be looking for Chekov." 

-o- -o-o-o- -o- 

"You don't need to be any closer to the main computer?" Nith asked Davies.

The two of them were crouching in a service conduit off the main computer room. Neither had any way of knowing it was the same conduit Sulu had occupied recently.

"No." Davies checked the memory monitor on her tricorder as it downloaded. "This is close enough for me. I just hope we're out of here before Mras and his crew come to plant the bombs." 

"It is possible that they will wish to use this access way," Nith agreed, uncomfortingly. 

"I'll only be a few more moments." She patted the tricorder encouragingly. "Come on, dear. Chew through it all. Just a few more megabytes…" 

"What will you do next?" 

"Find Sulu and the rest of our party and get the hell out of here as quickly as possible," she informed him bluntly. "You're invited too, of course." 

Nith looked at her intently. He seemed to be silently debating something. 

"What is it?" Davies asked wearily. "What have I said now?" 

"Lieutenant Sulu… Do you care for him?" 

Davies' first impulse was to tell her guide to mind his own bloody Kibrian business, but something in Nith's expression stopped her. "Yes, I do care for him," she answered honestly instead. 

"More than you do for Chekov?" 

"Oh, yes. Definitely. Chekov and I have not exactly been getting on well since we've come to Kibria," she replied, then sat back and waited for her companion to make some comment about the incident with Kahsheel. 

"And this must be Miss Davies." 

The ensign stopped dead at the sound of her name. Nith also halted and seemed to shrink a couple of inches as he cast his gaze downward. 

"Oh, hell. Not again," she sighed before turning to find herself under yet another Kibrian's weapon. When they'd gotten out of the access way to the main computer, Davies had thought she and her companion were in the clear. This did not seem to be the case. "And just who are you?" 

"It's not important that you know." The strange kiani took the tricorder from over her shoulder. "Nith knows, don't you, Nith?" 

"Sir," Nith replied deferentially, but Davies could see the muscles of his jaw tighten. 

"I'm quite happy to run into you, old friend," the stranger said. "I have a filthy task that needs to be done." 

"The house of Albrikk retains many servants," Nith replied in what was perilously close to being a rebellious tone for him. 

"But none to whom I would entrust a task as delicate as this one," Albrikk said with a smile. "And none who has proved their loyalty to their family as you have, Nith." 

When the servant made no response to this, Albrikk turned to Davies. "I suppose my cousin has told you the sad story of how he sacrificed his honor for the good of the family?" 

"I was a systems analyst," Nith informed her. "I used my knowledge to collect privileged information about an organisation that posed a threat to the interests of the house of Albrikk." 

"And was caught," Albrikk prompted. 

"I was chosen to bear the consequences of the crime alone, thus concealing the greater conspiracy and sparing the family further dishonor," Nith said, none of his anger bleeding into his calm voice. 

"Boo hoo," Albrikk said in mock sympathy. "Aren't you the brave one? You bungle the job then feel badly when you have to pay the price." 

"What I did was wrong," Nith said, addressing his kinsman directly for the first time. "I have, as you say, paid the price and through doing so have learned other, better ways of living and working with my fellow man." 

"Yes." Albrikk rolled his eyes. "I'd heard you'd gotten religion. Well, you're going to have to put all that aside for the moment. The family needs your services again. I'm afraid we're going to have to kill our old friend the Director. She was kind enough to see that I was freed from the Alareen Station after Ensign Johnson's shocking attack on my person…" 

"Johnson?" Davies repeated disbelievingly. "The Ensign Johnson from Star Fleet?" 

"But I've since found that she intends to destroy the main computer," the kiani continued, ignoring her. 

"Why is that of any consequence to you?" Nith asked. 

Albrikk frowned at him for a moment. "Oh, yes. That's right. We started blackmailing her after the little incident with you. You see, her family has been manipulating the results of the Vaytha in their favor. The only evidence of this is in the computer. If she is allowed to destroy that, we lose our hold over her family." 

Nith shook his head. "The degeneracy of this generation of kiani is truly sickening." 

"Yes, yes," Albrikk said impatiently, pulling an extra weapon out of his robe. "Save the sermon for later. Right now, get back in that access-way. Shoot anyone that comes near the main computer. I'll watch over your little friend here until you get back." 

Nith made no move to take the weapon. 

"Come on now, cousin," Albrikk said, "You don't seriously expect me to believe you really want to spend the rest of your days serving gruel and having your backside beaten by low caste scum, do you? Do this and you'll be back sitting in front of a keyboard dressed in silk within the week." 

Nith's face was unreadable as he looked down at the gun in his kinsman's hand. 

"You know that the family has the power to restore your freedom." Albrikk's tone was persuasive. "We've intended to do it all along. It's just been necessary to ignore you for a while to deflect suspicion. Do this for me… for the family and you'll be everything you were before so quickly it will seem you were never gone." 

"Yes," the ex-kiani agreed slowly, reaching for the weapon. "I think you are right." 

"Of course I'm right." Albrikk smiled. "And as I said, I'll be watching your friend Miss Davies — just in case you should have any second thoughts." 

"I won't, cousin," Nith assured him. 

"Good." Albrikk turned to the ensign. "Now, Davies, if you'd be so good as to…" 

He broke off suddenly as Nith clubbed him in the back of the head with the handle of his gun. 

"Good show, Nith," Davies congratulated him, relieving the unconscious kiani of his weapon. 

"Thank you, Miss Davies," the Kibrian said, handing her the tricorder, along with a small ceramic capsule.

"What…" she began to ask, but he shook his head. "That is not for you. It's for Lieutenant Sulu. Selrideen takes care of his own, you see. Now you must go to your friends — as quickly as possible — and leave this place with as much haste as you can make." 

"What are you going to do?" she asked as he hooked his hands under the arms of his unconscious kinsman. 

"Actively pursue my destiny!" he called as he dragged Albrikk into the access way. 

-o- -o-o-o- -o- 

A crowd was already gathering in the hall when Johnson entered. Kibrians in white ceremonial robes were practicing a solemn gavotte of some sort on the side the room that opened onto a beautiful courtyard garden. A light meal was being laid out on tables near the doors. The ensign quickly made his way to Datvin.

"I couldn't find any tricorders in our quarters," he informed the Kibrian quietly. "Davies' should have been there, but it wasn't." 

"Unfortunate," was the Manager's only comment. 

"Very," the meteorologist agreed. "Look, I know what you're thinking, but just because it's possible that Chekov could have done all these things doesn't mean that he did. What motivation could he possible have?" 

Datvin gave him a look that answered his question. 

"Well, he wasn't thrilled about my… buying him the way I did," Johnson admitted. "And guess he kind of felt betrayed when…" The meteorologist forced himself to close his mouth on any further confession. Now was not the time or the place. "So, I assume your men haven't found him?" 

"No." 

"It's funny," Johnson said, watching low castes carry in trays of bread and fruit, "but there don't seem to be many servants around at all." 

"Well, no…" It was now the Station Manager's turn to have a confessional note to enter his voice. "In fact, there are quite a few of them missing. I hate to repeat low caste gossip, but there is a rumor that they are making their way to the Old City." 

"Old City?" Johnson repeated. 

"The remains of an underground Kibree city. It's accessible through the tunnels that run underneath this Station… Or at least it once was," the Manager corrected himself. "The entrance was sealed off after a band of runaway servants tried to occupy the area in the last resurgence of the Dark Prince cult." 

"The Dark Prince?" Johnson ran through his mental files on Kibrian mythology. "Isn't that the son of Selrideen who dies and returns to life after seven days?" 

"Yes." The Kibrian's mouth twisted ironically. "Although you Federation people seem to have devised a more efficient method of resurrection…" 

"Selrideen takes a select band of the downtrodden into his underground fortress," Johnson recalled, "while the Dark Prince brings about the destruction of a corrupt regime and a palace built on unsteady foundations…" The meteorologist's voice trailed off as he noticed the name of Ffafner carved into the magnificent archway leading to the garden. 

"And then Selrideen presides over an age of peace and enlightenment," Datvin finished for him. "The legend tends to lend itself to some rather subversive interpretations. Seldom does a generation pass without some rabble-rouser trying to set themselves up as Selrideen or the Dark Prince. After the guard cleared the last band of hooligans out of the Old City, the entrance to the fortress was sealed off and the spring that feeds its underground lake was diverted. In order for anyone to clear the entrance and make the place habitable again they'd need nearly a ton of…" The Director broke off. 

"…Explosives," Johnson finished. "Which they might now have." 

"And the report is that the runaway servants are being led by that idiot chemist who calls himself Selrideen." The Manager closed his eyes and shook his head. "Johnson, it looks as though I've failed to notice the nose on my own face. If you'll excuse me…" 

As he watched the Manager walk over and confer with one of his security officers, Johnson reflected that the relative size of the Kibrian nose made this an even stronger metaphor than it was for most Humans. 

The ensign's attention was drawn by the group of white clad mourners who now were softly reciting some sort of unison chant. "Where's the coffin?" he asked Datvin when the Kibree returned. 

"Just before the ceremony, it is withdrawn to a preparatory chamber above and to the right of this one." Datvin pointed to a flower-garnished ramp on the opposite end of the room. "The funeral service plays out the traditional Kibrian view of existence. The coffin is slowly conveyed down a passage from the preparatory room, representing the way our souls descend from the celestial regions. It travels the length of the room to the accompaniment songs and chants — symbolizing our journey in corporeal form in the company of our families and co-workers. It halts briefly in front of that dais as a few words are said about the deceased — a very few in this case — and then descends to the cremation chambers below embodying our belief that our bodies become part of the matter that makes up the core of our planet after our death." 

"Interesting." Johnson's eyes were drawn back to the entry ramp. "This preparation room that the coffin is in — who's up there with it? Servants?" 

"At this point, no. A member of the family sits the last watch." Datvin stopped a Kibrian wearing a blue mourning sash around her neck. "Pardon, Zaso, but who sits saddonish for Kahsheel?" 

"Her fiancé." 

"Kahsheel didn't have a fiancé, did she?" 

"Well, Uyal," the Kibrian answered, looking embarrassed. "He tried very hard to be her fiancé." 

"Uyal?" Johnson repeated. "Oh, no! We've got to…" 

His voice was drowned out by the tolling of a low bell. 

"Never mind, Johnson," Datvin shouted in his ear. "The ceremony is already starting." 

-o- -o-o-o- -o- 

"No! No!" Chekov protested, doing his damnedest to wriggle out of the Kibrian's grip. The only result of his unsuccessful escape attempt was that instead of sitting on the edge of the coffin, Uyal now had him bent over the lid. "I don't want to do this anymore."

"Yes, I can see that." The Kibree momentarily abandoned his efforts to unlace the ties that fastened up the sides of the ensign's pants. He pushed his uncooperative captive's face back down against the surface. "You seem to have forgotten that you don't have a choice in any of this." 

Chekov squeezed his eyes closed to avoid seeing Kahsheel's face below him. "Let me go! Let me go! Sulu, wake up!" 

"He's not able to help you." Uyal held the ensign down with one hand and drew the phaser with the other. "Maybe you remember this." He held the weapon to the back of his captive's neck. 

Chekov tried to pull away. "You're insane." 

"Oh, just noticing that now, are you?" Uyal asked, wrestling him back into place. "Well, little beast, we're going to have to do something to recapture the very pliant mood you were in. Let me see, there's got to be some peeva somewhere near… I remember stashing a piece…" 

The Kibrian was interrupted by the pealing of a deep-voiced bell nearby. To Chekov's astonishment, the coffin under him jolted forward. 

"Gall's balls!" Uyal swore. "The ceremony's started. I must have dallied with you longer than I thought." 

"What's going on?" 

Instead of answering, the Kibrian pressed the phaser to Chekov's head and hissed in his ear, "If you move so much as an inch, I'll blast your precious lieutenant to atoms. Do you understand?" 

Chekov didn't understand any of this — least of all why the coffin had begun to slowly roll across the room on the train tracks. "Yes," he answered nonetheless. 

"Yes, sir," Uyal corrected, jabbing the barrel against his temple. 

"Yes, sir." 

"Don't think I won't do it," the Kibrian warned as he bent and awkwardly adjusted something underneath the flowers as the coffin continued its stately progress. 

"What are you doing?" Chekov asked, feeling terribly foolish to be draped bound and half-naked over the lid of the coffin with his feet dangling at least a foot short of the floor. 

"If I answered impertinent questions from slaves, I'd tell you that I'm setting the fuses on the explosives," Uyal replied irritably, stuffing the phaser back into his belt as he duck-walked along beside the coffin twisting controls. "But I don't answer questions from slaves. Now shut up before I take a stick to your impudent behind!" 

Chekov rolled his eyes. 'He intends to rape me, slit my throat, then blow up my body and he thinks I'm going to lay here for fear of getting a paddling as well?' 

The ensign watched and waited until the Kibrian came along side his left leg. He moved it gingerly away as if he were avoiding disturbing his captor. Chekov then aimed a kick straight to the Kibree's head. 

Uyal was knocked backwards head over heels. Instead of being rendered unconscious, as the ensign hoped, the Kibrian was only temporarily stunned. He quickly recovered, the phaser in his hand and murder in his eyes. 

Chekov swallowed hard and wished for a miracle. 

And with gratifying swiftness, one occurred. 

In an incredible stroke of bad luck, Uyal slipped on his own robe as he struggled to rise and fell forward onto the phaser which discharged on impact. 

"Damn," Chekov said, sliding off the rolling coffin as the Kibrian vanished in a green glow. "There goes another piece of equipment." 

He stepped forward to disarm the explosives… only to belatedly realize that his hands were still tied. 

"Damned kepir!" Chekov shook his head to clear the last of the drug's clouding influence. He had to figure out what to do. The coffin was rolling ever closer to a steep ramp that led out of the room. With the side panel pushed aside, he could see Sulu laying motionless beneath Kahsheel's body in a bed of explosives. 

No useful ideas came to the ensign. "I've got to…" he said aloud to help his benumbed cognitive faculties along. 

Suddenly there was no time left to think. The coffin began its descent. 

"Sulu!" Chekov cried, diving towards the opened bottom of the coffin. 

The lieutenant grunted as his fellow officer landed on top of him. His eyes fluttered open. "Wha…Wh…?" 

The coffin groaned under the extra weight as they descended into a dark tunnel. There was a terrible creaking sound as if it were trying to come loose from its moorings. 

"Hold on," the ensign advised. 

The lieutenant fortunately was not able to take this advice literally. Just being pressed so close to another living body was wrecking havoc with the last traces of kepir lingering in the ensign's veins. 

"Chekov?" Sulu said slowly, as the metal bands governing the coffin's progress began to snap one by one. "You aren't dead?" 

"Well…" The ensign laughed weakly as the last restraint broke loose and the coffin began to gain speed. "Not yet." 

-o- -o-o-o- -o-


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kahsheel's funeral goes off with a bang. And, finally, alls well that ends well for Kibria?

"Something's wrong," Datvin said as a loud rumbling noise began to be audible from beyond the ramp leading into the hall.

"Get out of the way!" Johnson shouted to the white-robed Kibrians near the front, not waiting for the Manager to act. "Get out of the way!" 

"Johnson!" someone screamed as the ritual dancers fled like a flock of frightened geese. "Johnson!" 

The meteorologist could see it was Davies as he pulled the Station Manager along with him towards the exit. Davies was trying to press her way into the room like a little salmon swimming upstream in a rushing flood of Kibrians. He could see she had a tricorder. 

"Explosives?" he shouted as he drew near. 

"Yes, but…!" she yelled and pointed. 

The huge black coffin rolled down the ramp, streaming a cloud of flower petals behind it. Some sort of struggle seemed to be taking place in the lower section. First one… then two bodies fell out and clear of the runaway coffin as it roared across the length of the hall. 

Johnson tried to shield both Datvin and Davies as the coffin plunged down to the level below. A terrible thought immediately hit the meteorologist. 

"Chekov!" he turned and yelled just before an explosion so loud he couldn't honestly have said he heard it at all slammed him sideways. He quickly picked himself up and ran towards the two prone figures. "Chekov! Get out! Get out!" 

As the building groaned above them, one of the bodies picked itself up. The other, which he could now see was Sulu, lay still. Johnson could feel rather than actually see Davies a few steps behind him as he scooped up the lieutenant and ran for daylight. 

"Run!" he screamed at Chekov, who was dazedly watching the side of the hall crumble. 

Davies, with a strength beyond her size, grabbed her fellow ensign and pulled him along in tow. 

None of them saw the packet of explosives that had dropped out of the coffin onto the floor of the ritual hall. The force of its explosion sent them all flying into the relative safely of the garden as the archway to the great hall collapsed behind them. 

"Davies?" 

"Chekov." The ensign's joy at discovering her shipmate was still alive was somewhat dampened by the fact he'd landed with his feet almost in her face. "Would you mind getting off me?" 

"Sorry." He rolled over and up onto his knees. "Sulu?" 

"He's unconscious, but still breathing." Johnson reported. 

Both Davies and Chekov quickly made their way to where Johnson was kneeling over the lieutenant. 

"Here, let me." Pushing Johnson aside, Davies broke open the little capsule Nith had given her and began tipping the powder into Sulu's mouth. 

"What's that?" 

"Don't know," Davies admitted. "A prescription compliments of our friend Selrideen." 

"It could be more poison," Chekov warned. He didn't stop her, though. Sulu's skin had been cold to the touch and in this light he could see that the lieutenant's skin had an unhealthy blue tinge. Whatever Davies was giving him was probably the best they could do. 

Johnson turned towards him. "Are you all right, Chekov?" 

"I'm fine." 

"You're bleeding." The meteorologist touched a skinned place on the ensign's cheek. 

Enough kepir was still in Chekov's bloodstream to make his skin tingle pleasantly at the contact. "It's just a scratch," he said, blushing and pulling away. 

"Well, at least come here and let me untie you," Johnson said, trying not to feel hurt at this rejection. 

"Yes, Master," Chekov replied, his embarrassment making his humour sound cutting. "Certainly, Master." 

"Master?" Davies repeated, looking up from Sulu for a moment. 

"Oh, didn't Johnson tell you he'd purchased a slave?" Chekov replied, using biting sarcasm to keep his mind off the very agreeable sensation of the meteorologist's hands on his. "Apparently it's his turn to own me." 

"Poor Johnson," Davies commented, aiming her tricorder at the lieutenant. "Sulu's very weak, but he seems to be stabilising." 

"Stop! Stop!" 

The team looked up to find a very dusty Datvin and team of security men climbing over the rubble of the collapsed archway towards them. 

"Stop what?" Davies asked as Kibrians surrounded them. "Breathing?" 

"You're not to untie that slave," Datvin ordered as his men pulled Chekov away from Johnson and forced the Russian to his knees. 

"Just a minute…" the meteorologist protested. 

"Not until I have some answers," the Station Manger silenced him, crossing in front of Chekov and drawing himself up to his full height. "Well, young man, do you have an explanation?" 

The ensign squinted as he looked up the very long distance to the Kibrian's face. It was hard to know where to begin. "There were explosives in the coffin." 

"Put there by Lieutenant Sulu?" the Manager wanted to know. 

"No. I think it was Uyal who put them there. Uyal put Sulu under the coffin because he blamed him for Kahsheel's death…" 

"Engineer Uyal," Datvin corrected. "Engineer Kahsheel." 

"Yes, sir," Chekov agreed, not without irony. 

"And where is Engineer Uyal?" 

"Dead." 

Datvin's eyebrows rose. "You killed him?" 

"Oh, no, no," Chekov protested, then reconsidered. "Well, I did push him, but the phaser went off by itself." 

"Oh, God, Chekov," Johnson groaned. 

"Do you have any idea of the magnitude…" Datvin began. 

"Just a minute," Davies interrupted, pushing her hair away from her dust-speckled face. "You can't be thinking that Chekov's to blame for this and not instead of Uyal." 

The Kibrian crossed his arms. "And why not?" 

"And when do you think he and the lieutenant tied themselves up?" she asked, putting her hands on her hips. "Before or after he put the explosives in the coffin?" 

"Now, see here, Ensign…" 

The Station Manager was interrupted by the sound of another explosion — this one much milder than the previous ones, but no less spectacular in its effect. Water shot up in bubbling geysers from well over a dozen spots behind them. 

"The pipes are bursting!" one of Datvin's guards observed unnecessarily. "If the damage from the explosion has caused blockages…" 

"Yes, yes," Datvin hushed him. "Boitz and Dask. Guard this… creature. If he so much as moves…" 

"Mister Datvin, I really don't…" Johnson protested. 

"This is a matter for the magistrates to decide, Ensign Johnson," the Kibrian brushed him off. "I suggest that the rest of you stay put as well. I must go assess the damage to the station. However I will return to speak to your lieutenant as soon as he is sufficiently recovered. I most urgently request that none of you engage in any further interference in our culture." 

With one last chilling glare, Datvin stalked off through the rubble surrounded by his guards. 

"Well, I suppose none of us need ask him for a recommendation when we come up for promotion," Davies observed, turning back to the lieutenant. "Johnson, I think he's coming round." 

Davies handed the meteorologist her tricorder and cradled the lieutenant's head in her lap. When Chekov tried to twist around for a better view, he was forcibly shoved back into place by Datvin's security men. 

"Johnson!" he protested. 

"Hold on just a minute, Pavel." The meteorologist frowned at his tricorder. "I don't like these readings, Davies. He's stabilizing at too low a level. I'm afraid he might slip into a coma." 

"What can we do?" 

Johnson took in a deep breath. "I'll go try to find the Medical Officer. Keep him quiet. Give him water if he comes around enough to ask for it." 

"There seems to be enough of that around," Davies said as yet another pipe burst in the ruins of a nearby wall. 

"All right, enough of that!" Johnson called out, quickly rising and crossing to where the two guards seemed to be trying to push Chekov's forehead down to the ground. 

"Johnson!" The guards released the Russian, but wouldn't allow him to stand. 

"Just stay here for right now, Pavel," the meteorologist ordered apologetically. "I've got to go get the Medical Officer. I'll be right back and we'll get this all straightened out… somehow." 

"Johnson…" the ensign growled, trying to wrench free of his captors. 

"And you two," the meteorologist said, turning to the guards. "Is my translator working?" 

"Yes," the guard on the right responded grudgingly. 

"Good." Johnson nodded. "Because I'd hate for you to misunderstand what I'm about to say. If I come back and find that even as much as one hair on his head is out of place, I'm going to kill you…" The meteorologist allowed his statement to sink in for a moment. "Both of you… Slowly… Do you understand?" 

The guards looked at each other, then looked back in the direction that their leader had disappeared, then looked back at the look on Johnson's face. "Yes, sir," they chorused, backing away from Chekov. 

"Good." The meteorologist turned to go. "I'll be right back. Let's try not to have any new disasters before then." 

"Thank you, Mister Johnson," Chekov said quietly after the ensign was well out of earshot. 

"You could be a little nicer to him," Davies commented. "He's pretty gone on you." 

"Don't be ridiculous," Chekov scoffed, taking advantage of his guards' temporarily cowed state to turn himself towards her. "How's Sulu?" 

She gently stroked the lieutenant's face. "He's getting a little color back, slowly, and his skin's beginning to feel warmer. Despite whatever the tricorder says, I think he's getting better." 

Chekov snorted. "Yes, if Johnson would pronounce him dead, he'd completely recover." 

"You shouldn't be so…" Davies broke off as the ground trembled with another much more distant explosion. Mourners, guests, and guardsmen who were using water from the broken pipe system to put out the fire raging up from the crematorium scattered to avoid more falling masonry. "What was that?" 

"Selrideen and his followers have broken into the Old City," one guard muttered to the other. 

"What?" Chekov asked, craning around to look at him. 

"Silence, slave," the Kibrian ordered gruffly. 

"Perhaps you'd like to explain it to me then?" Davies said. 

The guard looked as though he'd much prefer to go with another "Silence, slave." He was saved by the sudden reappearance of Johnson. 

"Davies!" he gasped when he reached them. "Is Sulu still the same?" 

"Where's the Medical Officer?" 

"Busy, very busy. If Sulu's stable, he's going to have to wait. Do you know any first aid?" 

"I've had the course." 

"So have I," Chekov reminded him. 

"They can use every hand available," Johnson said, directing his reply to Davies. "It's like a battlefield over there. The Medical Officer's got a broken arm himself. C'mon." 

"What about Sulu?" 

"Chekov can watch him. Can't you, Chekov?" 

"I can watch," the ensign replied, raising his hands the inch that the ropes binding him allowed. 

"That'll have to do for the moment," Johnson said, gently lifting the lieutenant out of Davies' lap and placing him next to the Russian. "C'mon, Davies. This is an emergency." 

As Johnson hurried back to ritual hall dragging Davies behind him, Sulu's eyes fluttered open. "Chekov?" 

"Sulu." Chekov moved as close to his comrade as his captors would allow. 

It looked as though it was almost an intolerable effort for the lieutenant to keep his eyes open. "Are we still not dead?" 

"We both seem to be alive at the moment," Chekov assured him. 

Sulu smiled weakly. "I like the eyes and the tan." 

It took Chekov a moment to figure out what he was referring to. "Oh, yes." 

"You look like my cousin Lee." 

"I have no peripheral vision. How do you see?" 

"Ancient Chinese secret," Sulu mumbled, his own eyes falling shut. 

"Sulu! Sulu!" Chekov desperately wished he was unbound. "Don't go to sleep." 

"Oh, that's just for concussions, Chekov," the lieutenant responded drowsily. "It's okay to sleep when you've been… What happened to me?" 

"You were poisoned… Like I was… Like Kahsheel." 

"Oh." The anguish in his friend's voice got through to the lieutenant. "Maybe I'd better try to fight it, then. God, that's a ratty looking beard. How long have you been growing it?" 

"Around four hours." 

"I take it back. For four hours, it's great." Sulu sounded almost as if he were drunk. "You know, I don't know if it's the eyes, the beard, or what, but you're really looking good to me right now, Chekov. I mean, really good. Like remember when you were in my quarters and you'd taken all that kepir? Right now, I'm really wishing…" 

"Yes, well…" Chekov glanced uncomfortably at the guards behind him. "Perhaps you'd better rest after all." 

"Put him over there with the other one." 

Chekov looked up at the sound of the Station Manager's voice nearby. Two guards were roughly escorting a familiar-looking miscreant between them. "Mras!" 

The guards forced the dwarf down to his knees beside the ensign. "Head down against the dirt, slave," one of the new guards ordered. "You too, Feddie." 

"But his master said…" one of the old guards warned. 

"His master isn't saying anything right now," the newcomer said, jerking his thumb towards Sulu who had lost consciousness again. 

The old guard decided not to press the point and stepped back to allow the new guard to nudge Chekov in the back. "Now, Feddie." 

Chekov looked around and found himself completely outnumbered and temporarily bereft of supporters. He had little choice other than to grit his teeth and comply. When he looked over at Mras, the dwarf was grinning at him. 

"Whatever you were doing, Feddie," the little Kibree said, "it looks like they took catching you in the midst of it." 

The ensign gathered his dignity — at least as much as was possible when one was kneeling with one's forehead in the dirt and the majority of one's clothing unlaced and hanging rather loosely on one. "And what have you been apprehended for?" 

"General suspicion," the dwarf replied unconcernedly. "But they found nothing on me and they'll not ask the one who has what I gave her where she got what she has. What takes ill with your master?" 

"He's been poisoned." 

The dwarf chuckled. "I take hope of you yet, Feddie. But you've got to learn to make dead your lovers in different ways." 

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

'What a mess!' Davies was thinking when the next shock hit. She quickly threw herself over the young Kibrian woman whose head wound she'd been bandaging. Although only an adolescent, the Kibree was much taller than Davies, but the ensign's relatively small body was able to protect her from the shower of dust and rubble that poured from the remains of the roof of the ritual hall. "Surely that's not more of Uyal's explosives."

"I don't think so." Johnson turned his tricorder away from the old Kibree whose broken leg he was in the process of examining and aimed it to the left and slightly down. "Someone has blown up part of an underground water delivery system over a mile from here." 

"Selrideen and the slaves who follow him have reached the Old City and are trying to free the underground spring," the Medical Officer speculated without slowing in his treatment of the bleeding patient in front of him. Johnson was amazed at the pace the physician was maintaining despite the pain he must be in. A low caste assistant served as partial replacement for the Medical Officer's hastily set broken arm. 

Another explosion rocked the Station. Water seemed to burst from a hundred places in the walls and floor at once. Just as quickly, the flow trickled away to nothing. 

"I'd say they've succeeded," Johnson said, consulting his tricorder. 

The Medical Officer shook his head as he brushed mud and dust from his work area. "With an unlimited supply of water and an unknown supply of explosives, the runaways will be able to hold out there for months… perhaps even years." 

"Until the dawn of the new age," Johnson's patient offered. 

"Come now, Mroth," the Medical Officer scolded. "You don't believe all that superstitious nonsense, do you?" 

"You yourself certified the Dark Prince dead," the low caste insisted stubbornly, "and have now seen his return." 

"The person you are referring to is not the Dark Prince or any other mythological figure," the physician countered strongly as he wrapped his patient's wounds. "He is not even Kibrian. At this moment he is only a few paces away under arrest. I don't recall the Dark Prince being arrested in any story I've ever heard." 

"He wasn't arrested before he destroyed the Palace," the old Kibree muttered. 

"Johnson, I don't know if this is a good time to bring this up," Davies said, turning off her translator as she helped her patient into the waiting arms of her relatives and moved along to the next victim. "But the Director is plotting to blow up the main computer. Apparently there's some information about the Vaytha test results that she wants destroyed." 

"Plotting with who?" 

"Mras, for one… who incidentally turns out to be her brother." 

Johnson grimaced. "And who we've suspected had access to explosives all along." 

"Oh, he's got explosives all right. Or at least he did the last time I saw him. I've downloaded the information from the computer into the tricorder you're holding so we don't have to worry about that, but I'm not sure how many more explosions this old building can take." 

Johnson consulted his tricorder. "Not too many. I think you should suggest that everyone try to move towards the gardens." 

"What are you going to do?" 

The meteorologist shrugged as he rose to his feet. "I'm not exactly sure. She needs to be stopped. I don't know how many people are still in the building. Another explosion nearby could crumble this entire wing of the Station. Hold down the fort." 

Davies sighed as she turned back to the Kibrian holding out a badly scraped arm for her to bandage. "As long as there's still a fort to hold." 

-o- -o-o-o- -o- 

"Ohhhh…"

"Sulu?" Chekov lifted his head cautiously. 

"Wh… what happened?" When Sulu finally managed to open his eyes, his pupils were huge. "Chekov? Is that you?" 

"Yes." 

"Are you sure?" 

"Yes." 

"Good." 

There had definitely been peeva, or something like it, Chekov reflected, in the powder Davies had given Sulu. "How do you feel?" 

"Okay," Sulu reported, not moving. He seemed more lucid than last time. "Come here." 

With a cautious glance backwards at his guards, Chekov leaned in closer, expecting to be told something important. Instead, Sulu put a hand on the back of Chekov's neck and pulled the ensign down into a kiss. 

He wriggled out of the lieutenant's grip with no difficulty at all and backed off. "Sulu!" 

Sulu sat up. "I said, 'Come here'." 

"Peeva makes a kiani more like a kiani, and a slag more like a slag," Mras observed. 

"It's the drug," Chekov snapped. "He's not himself." 

The dwarf only snorted in reply. 

"What are you doing tied up?" Sulu said, moving to free him. 

"Hey, you can't do that," one of the guards cautioned. 

Sulu turned. "I'd like to see you stop me." 

The guard was one of the ones who had been previously threatened by Johnson. Apparently this second threat was enough to convince him that all the Federation people were dangerous lunatics, because he stepped back, fingering his holstered weapon nervously. 

"Uyal tied me. Don't you remember?" 

"Uyal… He had you tied up… on top of the coffin?" The lieutenant paused in loosening the ensign's bonds. He rested his hands tenderly on the ensign's bare shoulders. "He was ripping something… Your clothes?" 

"Yes." 

Sulu ran his fingers lightly over the bandages on Chekov's back. "He hurt you?" 

"No… well, yes." Chekov tried not to feel flustered by the lieutenant's caresses. It's just the drug to counteract the poison that's making Sulu do this, he told himself… and the kepir Uyal gave me that's making me enjoy it. "He was trying to hurt me, but I escaped… we escaped." 

"I'll kill him," Sulu said. "No one touches you." 

"Except you?" Mras suggested. 

"Damn right," Sulu agreed. 

"Sulu…" Chekov gritted his teeth. "Could you just untie me, please?" 

"Sure." The lieutenant quickly loosened the last set of knots. "I'm beginning to remember it all. He had you on top of the coffin. And then you kicked him… And his phaser went off." 

Chekov rubbed his wrists. "Yes." 

"Then you jumped in on top of me…" Sulu paused to remember. "Then you kissed me." 

"No, I didn't," the ensign contradicted quickly. 

"Yes, you did." 

The ensign felt his already flaming cheeks go even redder. "That was just a hallucination." 

Sulu shook his head. "I don't think so." 

"Am I interrupting?" 

For the first time in a long time, Chekov was very glad to see Ensign Davies. "The lieutenant has recovered… Somewhat." 

"Angharad!" 

Chekov looked away as Sulu pulled Davies into a deep kiss. 

Mras was grinning at him. "You had your chance, Feddie." 

"Shut up," Chekov said, rising. 

He didn't get far. One guard leveled his weapon at him while the other pushed him back to the ground. 

"Hey!" Sulu turned at the noise. "Stop! That's my servant." 

"No, I'm not," Chekov retorted from the dirt. 

"Yes, I think he actually belongs to Johnson now," Davies put in. 

"This slave is under arrest," the guard warned. 

"For what?" Sulu demanded. 

"General suspicions," Chekov replied, remaining on his knees and glaring at the guard's weapon. 

"And that," Mras suggested, nodding at the ruins of the ritual hall. 

"What?" For the first time, the lieutenant seemed to take note of where he was and that things were not as they should be. "What's happened?" 

Chekov and Davies exchanged a look, each wondering where to begin. 

"Quite a bit, actually," Davies said. 

Squeezing his eyes hard shut, Sulu obviously made an enormous effort to pull himself together. "Maybe the two of you had better fill me in." 

-o- -o-o-o- -o- 

The door to the main control room was open. Johnson entered with his phaser drawn — cautiously, he thought, until finding himself face-to-face with an armed Kibrian.

"Sir." The Kibree immediately lowered his weapon and bowed. "Forgive me. I was expecting someone else." 

On the floor in the shadows behind the Kibrian, Johnson thought he could see the shape of a body. "Who?" he asked, keeping his weapon up. "The Director?" 

"Yes, sir." Despite his extraordinarily clear speech, this man had the bearing and dress of a member of the slave caste. "Your comrade Ensign Davies and I overheard her making plans to destroy the main computer." 

"Yes, I know. Davies said she'd downloaded the information into the tricorder." 

"Sir…" When the Kibrian looked up, his eyes were wide with panic. "Into the tricorder you are carrying?" 

"Yes." 

"Sir, you must leave this place immediately," the servant insisted, ignoring Johnson's weapon as he took the meteorologist by the shoulders and turned him back towards the door. "That information contained in that device must be made public. It must be kept safe until it can be presented to the High Magistrate's Council." 

"But… Wait!" Johnson protested as the Kibree pushed him out into the hall. "I want the answers to some questions. First, who is the person laying on the floor in there and what happened to him?" 

"A kinsman of mine," the slave replied. "A corrupt and degenerate kiani who wishes to perpetuate the lies created by those who have violated the integrity of the Vaytha." 

"So you killed him?" 

"No, sir. He threatened to take Ensign Davies hostage." 

"So you killed him?" Johnson repeated. 

"No, sir. He is stunned only. I want to bring him face to face with the Director and confront them with the dishonor they are bringing to both their once-noble houses." 

"And what do you hope to accomplish by doing that?" 

"With the help of Selrideen, I hope to make them see reason and end the insanity that has driven them to the brink of destroying the future of Kibria." 

"Well, I hope the spirit of Selrideen is with you," Johnson said, keeping his tone carefully respectful. "But my readings tell me that the Director is on her way here with two servants and a lot of explosives. Maybe I should stay and help you protect the main computer." 

"No, sir," the slave contradicted firmly, escorting the meteorologist forcibly before him. "You cannot defend the computer as I do." 

"Why not?" 

"Because, sir," the Kibrian said, giving the Federation officer a final push towards safety. "I defend it with my life." 

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Datvin was among the last Kibrians to exit the crumbling ruins of the ritual hall for the relative safety of the garden. "Lieutenant Sulu, I am pleased to see you are recovered."

Sulu gulped down the last of the cup of water he'd been drinking and tried not to squint as he looked up at the Station Manager. Other than feeling as nauseous as a seasick landlubber and as shaky as a newborn, he was feeling fine. "Datvin, why is my servant being held by your guards?" he demanded. 

"Technically, Lieutenant," the Station Manager answered as he passed the limping Kibree he was assisting to a low caste medical assistant, "he's not your servant." 

Sulu used Chekov's shoulder to help him stand and hoped the Station Manager wouldn't notice how much he needed such assistance. "I'm not interested in technicalities right now." 

"Then let's talk about realities, shall we?" Datvin folded his arms. "Such as the reality of Engineer Uyal's death. The destruction of almost an entire wing of this Station. The injury of over a hundred Kibrians and the confirmed deaths of at least twenty more…" 

"It wasn't my fault!" Chekov protested. 

The Station Manager's withering gaze fell upon the still kneeling ensign. "I'm sure your former servant won't be sorry to hear that among the dead found in the ruins of the kitchens was our major domo Gebain." 

As Chekov, who actually didn't feel too sad to hear this news, lowered his eyes and bit his lip to keep himself from making an inappropriate comment, he could hear Mras give a soft whistle of relief beside him. 

"I'm sure your servant knows that we have punishments far worse than death for crimes of a certain magnitude," the Station Manager continued hotly. "Perhaps he's heard tales while in the kitchens about slaves who were sentenced to serve in the salt mines or on the uridium flats…" 

Chekov hadn't, but the gulping noise that the dwarf made told him all he needed to know. 

"Look, Datvin…" Sulu began. 

"You yourself have quite a few questions to answer, Lieutenant," the Kibrian said, turning an only slightly less contemptuous glance in Sulu's direction. 

"Yes, sir, and I am ready and willing to do so whenever a magistrate is available," Sulu replied. "However until that time I think your legal tradition gives the accused the benefit of a presumption of innocence?" 

The Station Manager took a deep grudging breath in through his nose. "That privilege is not extended to slaves." 

Sulu wiped his eyes wearily. "Datvin, we could stand here arguing about Chekov's status for hours, but right now, there are people needing help. Chekov is a pair of hands you could be using. So are these two guards." 

"Me also!" Mras chimed in eagerly. 

"You're not going anywhere, Mras," Datvin snapped automatically, then looked at the mass of wounded Kibree surrounding them in the fading light and sighed. "Very well. Dask, take Chekov and see what aid you can give the medical officer." 

"Yes, sir." The guardsman nudged Chekov in the back. "On your feet." 

"If he gets more than ten feet away from you," Datvin continued, "shoot him." 

"Now just a minute…" Sulu protested. 

"The situation doesn't meet with your approval, Lieutenant?" 

"Not at all," Sulu said, not sure if he could continue standing without leaning on someone. "For one thing, I should be in charge of him." 

"As I said, Lieutenant," the Station Manager said, turning to assist the wounded himself, "technically he belongs to Mister Johnson." 

"And that's another thing," Sulu called after him. "Where's Johnson?" 

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"I suggest if you don't want to end up like your comrades," the former Director was saying to her remaining low caste servants, "that you be a little more careful with those bundles. Damn Mras! To just dump the explosives at my feet then disappear like the vermin he is… Are you sure you know how to detonate this material?"

"No problem there, ma'am." The first low caste gingerly unbuckled the load of white bundles from the pack on his partner's back. "The trick is not detonating them." 

"Put them over there," the Director ordered, directing her lamp towards the main access terminal. She gasped and recoiled when her light illuminated the familiar figure of a kiani seated there. "Albrikk!" 

"He can't harm you, Madame Director," another voice said from behind her. "Nor prevent you from what you wish to do." 

"If it isn't Nith?" the Director said, hastily re-gathering her aplomb. "I seem to have stumbled into a reunion of the House of Albrikk." 

"I am not here as a representative that House." Nith's weapon did not waver from its bead on her as he stepped out of the shadows. "But rather as a representative of the sense of honor and responsibility both you and my kinsman seem to have lost." 

The Director lifted her chin and turned to the low castes. "Zolti, Tref, you may leave." 

Her assistants looked nervously to Nith for permission. The slave nodded. 

"Yes, ma'am," the first low caste said, bowing. Neither he nor his partner made any attempt to retrieve their deadly burden before they fled with all the passion attributed to their caste. 

"And just what do you think you are here to prevent me from doing, slave?" the Director asked, crossing her arms. 

"You must repent of the corruption of the Vaytha — both personally and as a representative of your house. My kinsman must confess to and end the vendetta the House of Albrikk has been carrying out against your house," Nith said evenly. "The corruption of the Vaytha must be made public. You cannot be allowed to destroy the evidence of the treachery that your House has perpetrated against our people." 

"And you believe your own House had no involvement in this?" 

"As I said, I no longer strive to protect the interests of the House of Albrikk. I am more concerned with the good of all Kibrians." 

"Who are you to think you can stop me?" the Director asked, then pulled a white bundle of explosives out of the top of the pack. 

"An honest Kibrian," he said, raising his weapon. 

"You think I'm afraid to die?" she asked, setting her lamp down on the work station in front of her. She held the explosive over the flame. "If I die now, I die a kiani." 

"You die a degenerate and a coward," Nith countered unflinching. 

"And you die a fool," she said, giving him a final chance. 

The former kiani took in a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. "But one with a clear conscience." 

Looking into his eyes, she realized that she was going to have to make good her threat. There were too many witnesses now. She'd never be able to bluff or bully her way out of this. It suddenly was very clear to her that her only responsibility now was to her House — to prevent it from falling into the inevitable disgrace she could no longer avoid for herself. She laughed bitterly as she let the white bundle drop. "What good is that?" 

"You'll never know," Nith whispered in the seconds before the explosion silenced him forever. 

-o- -o-o-o- -o- <

"Oh, God, not another!" was Davies' only thought as she was knocked off her feet by the jolt of what felt like another large explosion somewhere inside the palace. She quickly righted the torch she'd upset when she fell and looked a round to see a dozen others take similar actions. As damp as the ground still was, there wasn't much danger of fire. As the rumble of showering masonry gradually quieted, she thought she could hear someone crying out for help in the distance… in Standard. "Johnson!"

"Davies," Sulu said, running towards the voice in the ruins, "stay where you are. You too, Chekov!" 

The lieutenant suddenly found himself blocked by a large figure. 

"You as well, Lieutenant," Datvin ordered, waving his guardsmen on. 

"But that's..!" 

"Mister Johnson, I know, but there's no sense endangering yourself as well." 

"But your men..!" 

"That's their duty." 

Before Sulu could protest further, the security men returned bearing a prone body between them. 

Chekov was the first of the Enterprise officers to reach the wounded meteorologist. "Mister Johnson," he said as he helped lower his fellow officer to the ground, "are you all right?" 

"Chekov, you are away from your escort," Datvin said, striding over to the scene. 

"Then shoot me," the ensign said, lifting Johnson's tricorder out of the Medical Officer's way. 

Sulu caught the finger that the Station Manager was about to lift. "He's just joking." 

"Looks like fractured ribs," the Medical Officer pronounced. 

"Two of them," Chekov confirmed, running the tricorder over his fallen comrade. "And a broken ankle. Painful, but he'll live." 

"In your opinion," the Medical Officer said, brushing him aside. 

"The tricorder," Johnson whispered. 

"I have it, Mr. Johnson," Chekov assured him. 

"Central computer destroyed," Johnson croaked. 

"By the Director?" Sulu asked. 

Johnson nodded. "Only copy." 

"Only copy of what?" Datvin asked. He looked around as the Enterprise officers suddenly fell silent. He frowned dubiously at the tricorder that Chekov now had pressed protectively against his chest. "The information from the main computer… But that device is so small, you could never store so much information in it… Or could you?" 

"She could," the Medical Officer said coming to the aide of his kinsman. "And she did. That is, if you're thinking that Ensign Davies downloaded all the Vaytha files from the central computer… At least that's what she told Mr. Johnson." 

"Damn," Davies swore. "I forgot he spoke Standard." 

"I'll take that," Datvin said, putting his hand out for the tricorder. 

Chekov, who was not quite sure what was at issue but was ready to resist the Station Manager merely on principle, only tightened his grip on the device. 

"And do what with it?" Sulu asked. 

"It will be turned over to the High Magistrate Council," the Medical Officer said, one-handedly testing Johnson's ribs. 

Datvin remained conspicuously silent. 

"Is that true?" Sulu demanded. 

The Station Manager blew a long breath out through his nose. "I don't think you fully appreciate the impact that a scandal of this proportion concerning the Vaytha would have on the general populace. The government could fall." 

Sulu took a moment to consider this. "Then maybe it's a government that _should_ fall." 

"This is interference, Lieutenant," Datvin warned. 

"Is it?" the lieutenant countered. "Or am I just refusing to take part in a cover up of the biggest crime to hit this planet in a century?" 

"This is a Kibrian matter," Datvin insisted, ignoring the look he was getting from the Medical Officer, "be it criminal or not. Leave it to Kibrians to weigh the consequences of the revelation of the material on that device, Lieutenant." 

"That's what I intend to do," Sulu said. "There's no reason for you to stand in my way." 

The Station Manager didn't reply, but scanned the small crowd huddled in the garden. It was hard to be sure if he was checking the location of his security men or cataloging the number of speakers of Standard present. 

"Datvin," Sulu said. "Let this crime have its consequences. If you have a system that allows corruption to occur on this scale, then perhaps your system needs to be reformed. Think about it, what would happen if the government did fall? Just because this particular system has lasted a long time, does this mean its the best possible system for your people?" 

"The system is not beyond salvage," the Medical Officer put in calmly. "There are ways redressing the wrongs that have been done without destroying our way of life." 

The Station Manager blinked at him in disbelief. "Such as what? Re-testing the entire population? The scope of the corruption of the Vaytha is much broader than we suspected." 

"The traditional testing process is outmoded and inadequate. It has been all our lives and our parents' lives," the Medical Officer insisted calmly, as he gave Johnson a sedative. "You yourself know that it unfairly deprives many children of the chance to become fully productive adults. The Vaytha has long been in need of reform. We should look on this as a chance to start anew with a reformed system." 

"A new testing system? To which we'd all have to submit for re-evaluation?" Datvin shook his head. "The kiani would never agree.." 

"Because of the possibility of falling into a lower caste or even slavery," Sulu put in. 

"Exactly!" 

"What if slavery is abolished?" 

"Lieutenant…" 

"I agree with Sulu," his kinsman said. "We should take this opportunity to rid our system of that weakness." 

For a moment the Station Manager was struck dumb by this unexpected defection. "But… but… there will always be a low caste," he sputtered. He pointed at Mras, who was still kneeling under guard nearby. "Look at this creature. What else is he capable of except servitude?" 

The dwarf straightened. "You might be surprised," he replied in Standard, before continuing in his native tongue, "And take thought, Datvin. For the Director to give pass to the Vaytha, another of our house had to take failing…" 

The Manager's mouth fell open. "But…" 

"He takes fear of what you hold in your hands, Feddie," Mras taunted. "Doesn't want to take knowledge of the truth." 

The Manager very purposefully turned his back on the dwarf. "Our society would collapse if…" 

"Datvin," the Medical Officer said, signalling his assistant to lift Johnson, "our society was set up in this way by our elders so each member would give his or her most to the good of the whole — not so we could exploit the deficiencies of those who are not so equipped to contribute. Our caste system can work without slavery. Yes, the lowest caste will always be with us, but they need not be slaves. Also our assignment of the physically disabled to the lowest caste is anachronistic. Our forefathers may have been able to utilize only those with strong, tall bodies, but in this technological age, we are in need of those with strong minds — regardless of how they appear." 

Datvin pressed his lips into a hard thin line. "You make a strong case. Do you intend to argue it before the magistrates?" 

"I would," the Medical Officer replied unintimidated. Davies had knelt to help as he and his assistant carefully wrapped Johnson's ribs. "And I know of others who feel the same way." 

"Yes, I'm sure you'd find many enthusiastic supporters among Selrideen and his rabble," the Manager shot back sarcastically. 

"I wouldn't dismiss that thought, Datvin," Sulu put in. "There are a considerable number of slaves gone. If they've fortified themselves inside the old underground city like everyone keeps saying, it will be no easy task to retrieve them. The announcement that the government had decided to abolish slavery would bring them out of hiding pretty quickly, though, wouldn't it? It would bring them back to this Station with little loss of life on either side — little of the chaos and disruption you hate so much." 

Datvin's face was unreadable in the torch light. "Abolition…" He shook his head. "The idea is too radical… We cannot completely abolish slavery… It must remain for criminals." 

"I must agree," the Medical Officer said, gently lowering Johnson down onto Davies' lap. "It is a strong deterrent." 

"It hasn't kept me out of trouble." Chekov said. 

"All this," Sulu said, before the Station Manager could voice his reply, "as you've said, is a Kibrian matter. And yes, it is radical. It would be a huge step for Kibria, but one that I believe would be ultimately beneficial to your culture… and to your culture's relationship to the Federation." He paused to let the Kibrians remember all the times the issue of slavery had threatened to derail negotiations with Star Fleet. "The Federation would be ready, willing, and pleased to offer you any assistance you require if you choose to pursue this path. All you have to do is ask." 

The Station Manager's jaw was set stubbornly. "All I'm asking for, Lieutenant, is that tricorder." 

Sulu walked over and stood beside Chekov. "I'm sorry, Datvin, but I will turn it over only to your High Magistrate Council." 

"If you do that you have to make a public statement about the contents and why you believe they would be of interest to the magistrates. Whatever the magistrate's decision, the scandal would be public at that point. The damage to the system would be done." 

Sulu nodded. "I'm familiar with Kibrian law." 

The Station Manager frowned. "Your servant is going also to gain an intimate familiarity with our laws," he said meaningfully. 

"That's a tactic that your predecessor would have used. I'm disappointed. I thought you were a more honorable man." 

There was a long silence. The Station Manager's dark color seemed to deepen. 

"You have no idea the chaos this will unleash…" he raged at last. 

"I know that it will be unleashed," Sulu replied calmly. "There's nothing you can do to stop it. Too many people already know. Datvin, you can either be a part of the problem or part of the solution." 

The Station Manager's mouth twitched with anger. After bestowing a cold glare on each member of the assembled company, he stalked away. 

"He'll do the right thing," the Medical Officer assured them as his assistant helped him rise. "Eventually. He is an honorable man." 

After the two Kibrians had blended back into the larger group, Chekov handed the tricorder to Sulu. "I'm glad you stood up to him." 

"At last?" Sulu added wryly. 

The ensign couldn't deny this thought had occurred to him. Instead he shrugged. "Better late than never." 

Sulu released a long breath. "I know it's not exactly procedure, but sometimes you just have to follow your…" Suddenly the lieutenant got the strong impression that he'd already heard someone say the words he was saying. "…heart." 

Mistaking his friend's puzzlement for pain, Chekov reached inside his jacket and pulled out the blue pills. "Here. Take one of these." 

"But those are for…" 

"Peeva," Chekov confirmed, pointing at lieutenant's still enlarged pupils. "There must have been some in the antidote Selrideen sent." 

"Yes. I feel better." Sulu smiled at his friend as a sense of well-being as warm as Kibria's sun spread through him. "That's exactly what I needed." He paused. "Did you give me the antidote?"

"No. Davies did. What difference does it make?"

"Nothing, I suppose. Chekov, I do trust you, you know."

Their eyes met for a moment, then both officers looked up as the familiar spangle of transporter beams firmed up into the presence of Captain Kirk and his first officer. 

Spock looked around him. "As I said, Captain, there has been extensive damage to Station." 

"Captain," Sulu said. 

"Sulu." Kirk ran his eyes over his four officers, taking in their condition. "What happened to Johnson?" 

"He has sustained broken ribs and a broken ankle during the last explosion, sir." 

Kirk stared at the barely familiar looking person making this report. "Mister Chekov, you're… out of uniform." 

"Uhm…" The ensign tried to think of a quick and acceptable explanation for his torn, mud and soot stained livery, the strange haircut, beard and eyelids. When none came to mind, he folded his branded hand behind his back and said, "Yes, sir." 

Kirk's eyes narrowed. "Lieutenant Sulu, what's going on here?" 

"Well, sir…" Sulu took a deep breath before plunging in. "We've found ourselves in the middle of an upheaval between the factions on Kibria favoring alliance with the Federation and those opposing such intervention. And…" 

"Have any of the powers that be survived the explosion?" 

"I think I might be able to find the Station's acting Director for you, Captain." 

"Perhaps you should do that," Kirk said flatly. 

Sulu nodded and went off to find Datvin, rather hoping that the Kibree would have vanished without trace. 

Kirk turned to Davies. "Presumably the destruction of the station wiped out all the work you'd done?" 

"The analysis of the local climatic records is still extant, Captain, and the conclusions we'd drawn are still valid of course. The work we'd carried out into the adequacy of the local facilities for controlling the project are of course, temporarily at least, redundant." 

"I thought you were using the Station computer?" 

"I downloaded a backup copy of the files just before the explosion, Captain," Davies explained. 

Kirk looked as if something wasn't quite adding up. "May I ask why?" 

"We… we had some warning that there might be trouble." 

The captain nodded. "You're very quiet, Mister Chekov." 

"Am I, sir?" 

"Worryingly quiet. What happened to you?" 

Chekov lifted his hand to rub his temple, then thought better of it and hid it behind his back. "I… Uh… I very much regret that I…" 

His confession was delayed by Sulu's return with Datvin. The manager was smoothing away an irritated scowl. 

"Captain Kirk…" The Kibree bobbed his head, clearly acknowledging Kirk as a kiriar in all but name. "Our late Director… I'm afraid that I was not expecting your return at this time. Most inappropriate… Beg your forgiveness…" 

"Please, Mister Datvin, I can appreciate that you have much more pressing matters on your mind than dealing with visiting dignitaries. The Eenos Project must inevitably be delayed. We hope of course, that it can still proceed at a later date." 

"Captain," Davies interrupted. "I don't think you should give any commitments until you've heard Mister Sulu's report." 

Kirk flicked her a sharp look and continued smoothly. "I'm only stating a broad principle of continued cooperation. You understand that." 

"Of course, Captain Kirk. Of course. We are well aware that there have been… frictions… due to the cultural differences between the Kibrian and Federation teams, frictions that must be resolved before any further progress can be made. It was always understood that this initial stage of the Project would operate as a learning opportunity for both sides." 

Kirk raised an eyebrow fractionally. He'd been led to believe that the Kibrians were quite convinced they knew everything anyone needed to know about anything already, apart from a few technical tricks. 

"As I have been explaining to Mr. Sulu, the… uh… compromises he suggested are already being worked out. The scale of the disaster that we have suffered was terrible, but we must look at it as an opportunity for a new beginning. I must thank your personnel for their hard work, Captain Kirk…" 

The officers greeted this tribute with expressions of quite adamantine stoniness. 

"And… uh… and wish them well." Datvin turned away. 

"Sir, if you like, I could have emergency medical teams beam down to assist your people." 

"Well…" The Kibrian look over the courtyard full of weary wounded and weighed the benefits of Federation aid against the unpleasant prospect of having even greater numbers of Star Fleet personnel running loose in the remains of his domain. "Yes, I suppose… Forgive my hesitation, Captain, but this entire episode has been most unsettling. I must confer with my advisers… just as I am sure you are eager to confer with your officers." 

Kirk smiled tightly. "Oh, yes." 

"Then let us…" Datvin paused and looked at Chekov, who had crossed his arms and was rolling his eyes, as if he'd very much like to swat the ensign. 

"Chekov," Kirk said, following the Kibrian's gaze to his officer, "why have you got Lt. Sulu's signature branded into the back of your hand?" 

"Well, sir.." The ensign straightened, "I… uhm, accidentally broke one of their laws…" 

Datvin snorted. "Just one?" 

"And I… well…" 

"Chekov," The station manager beckoned him over. "This man is your superior, correct?" 

"Yes." Chekov agreed warily. 

"You obey his commands and are subject to his orders as you would be subject to a master's orders on Kibria?" 

"Well, roughly…" Chekov admitted. 

"And you will have to make a full and complete report of your actions on Kibria to him?" 

The ensign didn't meet his captain's eyes. "Yes." 

"And will have to accept any disciplinary action he chooses to bestow on you as a consequence of your behavior?" 

"Yes." the captain answered for him. 

"Then I am satisfied to release him to your custody, Captain." Datvin said smiling at the ensign. "And take pleasure in the fact I will never see you again." 

"Thank you, sir." Chekov couldn't resist adding, "I share your sentiments one hundred percent." 

"Sulu, you have potential as a leader, but you really have much to learn about instilling a respectful attitude in your slaves." Datvin bowed. "Captain." 

Kirk waited until the Kibrian was well out of earshot before turning to Sulu. "And just what was that about?" 

"It'll be in my report, sir." 

"Lieutenant," Kirk said, flipping open his communicator. "Something tells me that's going to be one hell of a report. Scotty, beam us up." 

-o- -o-o-o- -o- 

Sulu waited until the captain had moved back to the communications console to confer with Uhura before he turned to the navigator and asked, "So how are you?"

Although Chekov had not specifically been forbidden to speak, he also checked that his captain was out of earshot before he replied, "I'm fine." 

In the four days since the lieutenant had seen him last, the Russian had lost the false eyelids, dark skin, and beard Johnson had used to disguise him. In fact, other than his still short hair and a discoloration on the back of his right hand, there was no outward sign Chekov had ever been to Kibria. There were other more lasting repercussions, though. 

"It doesn't seem fair to me," Sulu said quietly as his captain left the bridge on some errand. "If you're receiving disciplinary action, we all should. We all ended up breaking laws on Kibria." 

"But no one else was convicted of doing so by the civil authorities," Chekov pointed out, as he checked the ship's orbit around the planet. "Nor was the captain specifically requested to discipline any of you by ruling officials. It's not so bad, really. It's not as though I'm in danger of being court-martialled. I've not even received an official reprimand." 

"You're just confined to quarters when not on duty for the next three months." 

"Which is infinitely better than three more minutes of being a slave on Kibria," the ensign assured him. "The only thing I don't like is the drug rehabilitation program I've been assigned to complete." 

"Well," Sulu, who had experienced some withdrawal problems himself, said slowly, "that peeva is hard stuff to kick." 

"It's not the medical intervention I dislike. It's all the tapes on substance abuse I have to sit through. It's humiliating," the navigator fumed. "They're so patronizing. And I still don't see any point at which I could have 'just said no'." 

Sulu shook his head. "If it's any comfort, after the new testing system goes in, there's a good chance that those same civil authorities and ruling officials will wind up as street sweepers." 

Chekov smiled at the thought. "So the reforms are going through?" 

"It looks like it. After I presented the Vaytha evidence in front of the High Magistrate Council, it was almost as chaotic as Datvin predicted. You wouldn't believe the numbers of people affected. Some of the individual case stories would take your breath away… Well, you know about your friend Mras — ended up a slave when his intelligence scores put him in the top percentiles." 

"He always said he was short not stupid." 

"On top of that, the upper castes are blaming the conservative faction for the destruction of the Station and the central computer. And there's a lot of support among the lower castes for Selrideen and his followers who are holed up in the Old City. In short, it's perfect timing for radical reform. The Medical Officer wasn't joking when he said he knew other people who felt the way he did. As soon as the information about the Vaytha came out he and a whole Abolitionist movement materialized out of nowhere with a completed prospectus for the revamping of the testing system and a reorganization for the social order in hand." 

"Almost as if they knew that this crisis was going to come about," Chekov said suspiciously. 

"Johnson told me that it was originally the Medical Officer who told him about the tampering with the Vaytha results. So it's possible that he's been thinking about this for a long time and preparing for the inevitable moment when the scandal became public — because you know you can't keep anything secret for long in that place." 

"Very true." 

"I've been wondering if there was some kind of connection between the Medical Officer and Selrideen. It's obvious from the current political situation that they were working toward the same end from different directions. And that makes me wonder if they weren't working together. The Medical Officer was there when you "died." Your "death" is an important part of the Dark Prince myth Selrideen is milking." 

"Dark Prince?" 

"Oh, yeah." Sulu grinned. "Didn't I tell you? You're a mythological figure on Kibria now. You should hear some of the outrageous versions of your exploits that I've heard in the past few days." 

Chekov blinked and opened his mouth to comment, then carefully closed it. "No. I don't want to know." 

"I can't believe Johnson's decided to stay on as liaison. Did you get a chance to talk to Johnson before he beamed down?" 

"Yes," Chekov said, looking down at his board. "I saw him while I was in Sickbay." 

"He had said he wanted to talk to you," the lieutenant said gingerly. 

"It was I who needed to speak to him," Chekov admitted. "I apologized for a few things I said when I was feeling… sensitive." 

"Yes, well…" Sulu began purposefully. 

"I've heard that Ensign Davies has also put in for a transfer," the ensign said, quickly changing the subject. 

"Yes." Sulu grinned. "She said it was just to get out of sitting next to you at interdepartmental meetings." 

Chekov's laugh was a little pained. 

"It's a great opportunity really," Sulu continued. "The chance to be assigned to Admiral Tanaka's staff as an aide and adviser on Kibrian affairs — I was almost tempted to take it myself. For an ensign to have a chance at a position like that…" The lieutenant broke off when he noticed the look on his companion's face. "They didn't offer the job to you?" 

Chekov shrugged. "Oh, no. We mythological figures have so much more important things to do with our time." 

"I'm sorry." 

"I wouldn't have taken it," the Russian assured him. "I wouldn't leave the _Enterprise_." 

"Not even for a chance to get out of sitting next to me at departmental meetings?" Sulu's comment didn't quite come out as the joke he'd intended and Chekov's response didn't quite make it to being a laugh. "Listen, Pavel, I just want to say…" 

"Sulu," the navigator stopped him. "If we start apologizing, we might both be at it for years." 

"That's true," the lieutenant conceded. "But I still think we should talk." 

"Mmmhmm." Again, something on the ensign's board suddenly seemed very interesting. 

Sulu wasn't sure how he was supposed to interpret this response. "I mean, I'd like to talk," he tried again. 

"Mmmhmm." The navigator still couldn't seemed to take his eyes off an indicator whose readings hadn't changed in hours. 

"Some pretty heavy things happened between us on Kibria," Sulu persisted. 

"Mmmhmm." The noise sounded positive, but the Russian's cheeks were turning very pink. 

"I guess now's not really the time or the place…" 

"Mnntmmm." The noise was definitely negative this time. 

"But I do definitely think we should talk." 

"Mmmhmm." 

"And I hope," Sulu ventured, "that in the meantime I can still consider myself your friend?" 

"Of course." Chekov finally looked him in the eye. "Of course," the ensign repeated adamantly. 

"I'm glad." Sulu smiled, then continued, "And when we get to the right time and place to talk about all this, you're going to let me know, right?" 

A blank indicator suddenly demanded the navigator's attention. "Mmmhmm." 

"Well, gentlemen," Captain Kirk said, entering from the turbo lift. "I think we're finally ready to leave orbit. Mister Chekov, plot us a course to meet the T'Zoln at Hxharra. Warp six, Mister Sulu." 

"Yes, sir." 

"Mister Spock…" The captain crossed to the Science Station. "After we arrive, we're going to need several pairs of volunteers to shuttle the teams of Vulcan scientists to their observation posts inside the Netulian asteroid belt and help them set up their equipment…" 

At the helm, Sulu and Chekov exchanged a quick look. 

"Captain…" they offered in unison without hesitation. 

-o- The End -o- 


End file.
